Bride of Pendorric

I looked at her sharply.

  “Perhaps,” she went on, “it was just a warning. Perhaps …”

  She was staring at one of the windows on the east side as she had before. I looked up; there was no one there. She saw my glance and smiled faintly.

  “Good-by,” she said; and went into the house through the north door.

  I felt irritated. I had an idea that the child wanted to make an impression on me. What was she suggesting? That certain matters which were obscure to ordinary people were revealed to her? Really it was rather silly of her. But she was only a child. I must remember that; and it was rather sad if she were jealous of her sister.

  Then quite suddenly I heard the voice and for a moment I had no idea from where it was coming. It floated down to me, a strange voice singing slightly out of tune. I heard the words distinctly.

  “He is dead and gone, lady,

  He is dead and gone;

  At his head a grass-green turf,

  At his feet a stone.”

  I looked up at the windows on the east side. Several of them were open.

  Then I went resolutely through the east door and up the stairs to the gallery.

  “Hyson,” I called. “Are you there, Hyson?”

  There was no answer; and I realized how very cool it seemed in the house after coming in from the sunshine. I was angry, telling myself that someone was trying to tease me. I was more angry than I should have been; and there, in that silent part of the house, I understood that I was so angry because I was beginning to be frightened.

  FOUR

  Someone was amusing himself—or herself—at my expense. I had heard the playing of a violin; I had heard the singing. Why should I be the one singled out to hear these things? I was sure it was because of the legend and because I was the new Bride. Had my practical attitude, my determination not to be affected by stories of ghosts and hauntings, irritated someone? Was my skepticism a challenge? That seemed the most likely. Someone who believed in the ghost of Pendorric was determined to make me change my tune.

  I wondered to whom I could talk about this subject, which was beginning to take up too much of my thoughts.

  If I mentioned it to Roc, he would laugh and tell me I was coming under the spell of Pendorric as all the brides did. Morwenna was always friendly but somehow remote; as for Charles, I saw less of him than of anyone in the household and I couldn’t imagine myself chatting cozily with him. The twins? Impossible. Lowella was too much of a scatterbrain and I could never be sure what Hyson was thinking. Indeed, if someone was trying to scare me I rather suspected it might be Hyson, for, after all, there was an element of childishness in the method.

  I had never liked Rachel Bective and it occurred to me that she might have sensed my dislike, returned it, and was trying to make me uncomfortable in my new home.

  There seemed only one person in whom I could confide and that was Deborah. She was more affectionate than Morwenna, more inclined to share confidences; and I felt that, being a Devonshire woman, she was practical and looked on superstition much as I myself did.

  There was an opportunity to talk to her when I went to her room to look at her albums, and we sat in the window seat of her sitting room with the books across our knees while she explained the pictures to me. They had been arranged with care, in chronological order, with a caption beneath each; and most of the early ones were of Barbarina and her husband. There were several of Barbarina and Deborah herself and I couldn’t distinguish which was which.

  “That’s because we’re in repose,” explained Deborah. “She was much more animated than I; she had all the charm. But you don’t see that in a snapshot.”

  There were many of Roc and Morwenna; and I found it absorbingly interesting to study his little face and discover there a hint of traits which were his today.

  Then I turned a page and there were no more pictures.

  “That last one was taken a week before Barbarina died,” Deborah told me. “After that I didn’t use this book. This was what I thought of as Barbarina’s Book. It couldn’t go on after she had gone.” She picked up another album and opened it. I looked at pictures of an older Roc and Morwenna. “After a while,” went on Deborah, “life started to go on in a new pattern, and I took my pictures again.”

  I turned a page and stopped, for I was looking at what I thought was a group consisting of Roc, Morwenna, and Barbarina.

  “This one doesn’t belong in this book.”

  Deborah smiled. “Oh yes, it does. That isn’t Barbarina. She died six months before that was taken.”

  “So it’s you. But you look so exactly like her.”

  “Yes … when she was no longer there to be compared with me people thought I was more like her than I had been before. But that was because she wasn’t there, of course.” She turned the page as though she couldn’t bear to look at it. “Oh, and here’s Morwenna and Charles. He’s very young there. He came to Pendorric when he was eighteen or so. Petroc’s idea was to train him so that he could take over, and that was what he did. See how Morwenna gazes up at him. He was a god to her.” She laughed. “It was rather amusing to see the effect he had on her. Every sentence she uttered began with ‘Charles says …’ or ‘Charles does …’ She adored him from the moment he came to Pendorric, and she’s gone on doing so ever since.”

  “They’re very happy, aren’t they?”

  “Sometimes I used to think that there was too much devotion there. I remember one occasion when he went down to market and was involved in a smash-up. It was only a minor affair, and he was in hospital for less than a week, but Morwenna was … stricken. And I thought then: ‘You’re not living a life of your own, my dear. You’re living Charles’s life. That’s well enough if Charles goes on living and loving you. But what if he doesn’t?’ I think she’d die of a broken heart.”

  “Charles seems quite devoted to her.”

  “Charles would always be a faithful husband, but there are other things in his life than his marriage. He’s devoted to the Church, you know. Peter Dark often says he doesn’t know what he’d do without him. Charles’s father was a parson, and he was very strictly brought up. He’s deeply religious. In fact I wonder he didn’t take holy orders. I think cultivating the land is a sort of religion with him. As a matter of fact he has moulded Morwenna to his ways. There was a time when she was as ready for mischief as her brother. I’ve never known her to go against Charles in any way … except perhaps one thing.”

  I waited expectantly and Deborah hesitated as though wondering whether to go on.

  “I meant … her friendship with Rachel Bective.”

  “Oh, doesn’t Charles like Rachel?”

  “I don’t think he has any strong feelings of dislike, but at one time Morwenna used to bring her home from school for every holiday. I asked if she hadn’t another friend who might come, or whether Rachel hadn’t a home of her own to go to, and I remember how stubborn Morwenna was. ‘She must come here,’ she said. ‘She wants to come and she hates going to her own home.’ Charles didn’t actually say he disapproved of her, but he never took the two of them riding or with him when he went round the farms, as he took Morwenna when she was alone. I thought that would be enough to make her stop inviting Rachel. But it wasn’t.”

  “And now she’s living here!”

  “Only until the children go away to school again. And then I expect she’ll find some excuse to stay, although perhaps now you’re mistress of the house …”

  Deborah sighed and I knew what she meant. Unprivileged Rachel had come from a poor home to Pendorric, had loved what she had seen and longed to make it her own. Had she believed that she might be the new bride of Pendorric? Roc had evidently been friendly with her, and I could understand how easy it was to fall in love with him. Was Rachel in love with Roc? Or had she been at some time? Yes, I decided in that moment, Rachel Bective might have a very good reason for resenting me.

  I said slowly: “Do you remember telling me about Barbarina’s playing O
phelia and singing a song from the play?”

  Deborah was very still for a few seconds and I was aware that she did not look at me. She nodded.

  “I thought I heard someone singing that song in the east wing. I wondered who it could be.”

  The silence seemed to go on for a long time, but perhaps it was only for a few seconds. Then Deborah said: “I suppose anyone might sing that song.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Deborah turned to get one of the albums which I had not yet seen; she sat beside me explaining the pictures. She evidently did ., not appear to think it strange that I should have heard someone singing the song.

  A few days later, in response to an invitation, I called at the doctor’s house. It was a charming place—early nineteenth century—surrounded by a garden in which were beehives. Mabell Clement was a very busy person, tall and fair like her brother, and she wore her hair in a thick plait which hung halfway down her back—at least that was how it was when I first met her; on later occasions I saw it made into a knot in the nape of her neck that was always threatening to escape restriction; she wore smocks sometimes, caught in at the waist by girdles, with raffia sandals, amber beads, and swinging earrings.

  She was determined that everyone should recognize her as an artist, and this seemed to be her one foible, for she appeared to be good-natured, easygoing, and a good hostess. She was very proud of her brother; and he was affectionately tolerant towards her. I imagine that meals were served at odd times in that household for Mabell admitted that, when the urge to paint or pot or look after her garden came to her, she simply had to obey it.

  I was shown over Tremethick itself, the pottery shed, and what was called the studio, and I had an interesting afternoon.

  Dr. Clement said that he would drive me back to Pendorric, but half an hour before I was due to leave a call came through from one of his patients and he had to go off immediately.

  Thus I walked back to Pendorric alone.

  As I came into the village there was no sign of anyone. It was one of those still afternoons, very hot and sultry; I passed the row of cottages, and looked for Jesse Pleydell, but he was not at his door today. I wondered whether to call on him as I had promised to do, but decided against it. I wanted to find out from Mrs. Penhalligan or Maria what tobacco he smoked and take some along for him when I went.

  The churchyard lay on my right. It looked cool and somehow inviting. I hesitated and then slipped through the lych gate. I have always been attracted by graveyards, particularly deserted ones. There seems to me to be a sense of utter peace within them, and I liked to think of all those people, lying beneath the gray stones, who had once lived and suffered and now were at peace.

  I walked among the tombstones and read some of the inscriptions as Roc had, not very long ago; and eventually I saw ahead of me the Pendorric vault.

  Irresistibly attracted, I went to it. I wanted to see if the laurel wreath was still there.

  It had gone but in its place was a small wreath of roses, and as I went closer I recognized the Paul’s Scarlets that grew in the garden. There was no note on the flowers but I was sure they were there in memory of Barbarina. It occurred to me then that Carrie was the one who put them there.

  I heard a rustle in the grass behind me and, turning sharply, saw Dinah Bond picking her way towards me. She looked even more vital here among the dead than she did in the old blacksmith’s shop; she held herself erect and swung her hips as she walked, in a manner which was both graceful and provocative.

  “Hello there, Mrs. Pendorric,” she called jauntily.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “It be quiet in here … peaceful like.”

  “I thought the village looked peaceful today.”

  “But too hot to move about much. There’s thunder in the air. Can’t you feel it? All still and waiting like … for the storm to break.”

  “I expect you’re right.”

  She smiled at me insolently and, what was worse, with something which I felt might have been compassion.

  “Having a look at the family vault? I often do. I bet ’ee haven’t been inside, Mrs. Pendorric.”

  “No.”

  She laughed. “Time enough for that, I reckon you think. It’s cold as death inside … and all the coffins laid out on shelves. Sometimes I come and look at it … like this afternoon … just for the pleasure of knowing I’m outside and not locked in—like Morwenna once was.”

  “Morwenna! Locked in! How did that happen?”

  “It’s years ago. I was only a kid then … about six, I think. When are you going to let me tell your fortune?”

  “Sometime I expect.”

  “No time like the present.”

  “Why are you so anxious?”

  “I’m just taken that way.”

  “I haven’t any silver to cross your palm with.”

  “That! It’s just a way to get the money. I wouldn’t do it for money … not for you, Mrs. Pendorric. Now I’m married to Jim Bond, I don’t do it professional like. That went out when I gave up my gypsy ways.”

  “Tell me about the time Morwenna was locked in the vault and who did it.”

  She didn’t answer, but sat down on the edge of a gravestone and, resting her chin in her hands, stared broodingly at the vault.

  “The key of the vault was always kept in a cupboard in Mr. Petroc’s study. It was a big key. She’d come down for the holidays.”

  “Who?”

  “Rachel Bective.”

  “How old was she then?”

  “I’d say about as old as those twins are now … perhaps a year or so younger. I was always trailing them. I think it was the color of her hair. Mine was that black and hers was ginger color. I wanted to keep looking at it. Not that I liked it, mind. I liked Morwenna though. ‘Miss Morwenna’ we were told to call her. I never did though and she didn’t mind.

  “She was like Roc … they never minded things like that. But she did … that ginger one. She’d say to me: ‘You’ll call me Miss Rachel or I’ll know the reason why.’ Miss Rachel! Who did she think she was?”

  “Tell me how Morwenna came to be in the vault.”

  “I was always in the churchyard. I used to come here to play among the tombstones; and one day I saw them together and I hid and listened to them talking. After that I just wanted to watch them and listen to them some more, so I was often where they were, when they didn’t know it. I knew they’d be at the vault because I’d heard about it the day before when they were in the graveyard, reading the inscriptions. Morwenna told Rachel that’s what she used to do with her brother, and that made Rachel want to do it, for she did always want to do everything they did. She wanted to be one of them and she couldn’t … she couldn’t ever be … no more than she can now. Oh, she be educated, I do know … but I’d be as good as her if I’d had the schooling.”

  “What has she done to you, that you hate her so much?”

  “’Tain’t what she’s done to me. Her wouldn’t deign to give much thought to the likes of I, Mrs. Pendorric. It’s what she’d do to others.”

  “You were telling me.”

  “So I were.” She held her hands in front of her, as though she were reading her own fortune. Then she went on: “I heard ‘em talking. She wanted Morwenna to get this key so that they could have a look at the vault, and Morwenna didn’t want to. You see, it was in her father’s study. He was away at the time … he were often away after the accident … and she said to Morwenna: ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t.’ I was up in a tree and they couldn’t see me, but I knew that Morwenna would get the key because she would really be sorry if she didn’t. Then I heard they were coming there next afternoon, so I were there too.”

  “So Morwenna did get the key.”

  Dinah nodded. “I was here in the graveyard next day when they come, and they had the key. Rachel Bective opened the door of the vault and they went in, though Morwenna didn’t want to much, but Rachel was saying: ‘You’ve got
to. You’ll be sorry if you don’t,’ and Morwenna was saying: ‘I can’t. Not again.’ Then all of a sudden Rachel laughed and ran out of the vault, slamming the door after her. Then she locked it and Morwenna was shut in.”

  “It must have been a horrible experience. I hope she didn’t stay there long.”

  Dinah shook her head. “No. There’s a little grating in the vault and Rachel was soon at that. She kept calling out: ‘I won’t let you out till you say you’ll ask me for Christmas. I’ll go back and I’ll tell them I don’t know where you are. Nobody’ll think you’re in here because I’ll take the key back and put it where it belongs … and it’ll be weeks before they find you, then you’ll be a skeleton like the bride in the Mistletoe Bough.’ So Morwenna said she would do what she wanted and Rachel opened the door. I never forgot that, and I don’t never pass this spot without thinking on it and how poor Morwenna had to say she would do what it was Rachel wanted, and how pleased Rachel looked in her sly way.”

  “She was only a child, I suppose, and she must have longed to come to Pendorric for holidays.”

  “And you reckon that excuses her … doing a thing like that!”

  “It was a childish trick …”

  “Oh, no ’tweren’t. She’d have left her there if Morwenna hadn’t given way.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  Dinah looked at me scornfully. “I’m beginning to read your fortune, Mrs. Pendorric, without so much as a look at your hand. You’re one of them that says: ‘Oh no, it bain’t that way …’ just when you don’t want it to be. Your sort has to beware.”

  “You’re quite wrong. I assure you I face facts when I know they’re there to be faced.”

  “Ay, but it’s knowing they’re there that’s important, don’t ‘ee think, Mrs. Pendorric? I’ll tell ’ee this: There’s people that don’t change much all through their lives. You can’t tell ’tis so till you’ve proved like … but it don’t do no harm to be on your guard. Oh, I do know a lot about Pendorrics … living close you might say, all of me born natural life.”