“Such an exceedingly regrettable pair of fatalities—especially occurring in such a small and remote community—arousing a not unnatural hostility, I fear, towards your family—”
“Oh,” said James, cutting through the flow (rather like, thought Alvey, a person with a pair of sharp shears chopping through an unwieldy thicket of brambles, as she had seen Carey doing two days before) “Oh, you are suggesting, are you, Mr Thropton, that the two acts of aggression, the thrown rock and the damage to my stepmother’s garden, are intended as an act of retaliation for those two unhappy deaths? I suppose it might be possible; if, that is to say, my father, in his capacity as Justice of the Peace, has not recently had any poachers transported or flogged?”
He spoke with an assumed air of cold composure which plainly irritated Mr Thropton. His already florid complexion reddened even more deeply.
James ought to try to be a little conciliating, thought Alvey; but I can’t find it in my heart to blame him. Mr Thropton is such an odious man.
“Do you yourself, Mr Thropton, hold any particular suspicion as to the perpetrator? Birkland is a very small village, after all.”
“Some friend, relation, or past suitor, you mean, of the unfortunate girl?” Mr Thropton said delicately. “She is not known to have had any such suitor; and her only relative, her father (a most disagreeable, uncouth fellow, and otherwise a likely candidate for the part of villain,) is known to be away at present, visiting, I understand, a brother at Riding Mill.—But of course all these village families are connected and inter-connected, not only with each other, but by ties criss-crossing over the whole county. I must confess I always thought it a most injudicious move to receive that girl into the house here; condoning her fault, almost rewarding it, you might say.”
“Annie must have had some suitor,” James remarked, “or she could not have borne a child.”
“Mr Winship! Pray! Remember that you are in the presence of your sister!”
The eyes of James and Alvey met. Their faces remained carefully expressionless. But Alvey said,—
“You forget, Mr Thropton, how often in this house I have heard the subject canvassed. You may, if you please, consider me unshockable.”
Mr Thropton’s eyes bulged with outrage. He said, “Nonetheless, Miss Louisa, I must consider it a wholly improper remark, wholly unsuitable for the ears of a pure and unblemished young lady such as yourself.” And, so saying, he cast her a look of so lingering, meaningful and lascivious a nature that Alvey, startled to death, had the sudden thought: Could Mr Thropton have been the father of wee Geordie? I would not at all have put it past him to seduce a village girl, now that I consider the matter. And then, he would have told her to say that the child was James’s—since he himself could never acknowledge paternity or support her—but, if she could get her story accepted at the Hall, then they would both be secure enough—
“It is certainly a pity that old Herdman was away,” remarked James thoughtfully. “For he is, as you say, a very likely suspect.” And that is about the only sensible thing that you have said, his tone suggested.
Mr Thropton, having put down four glasses of Madeira and seeing no likelihood of being invited to dinner, at last stood up to go.
“Should I, perhaps, pay a visit to the sick bed of your mama?” he offered.
“To the best of my knowledge, she is still unconscious. My medical friend Major Fenway is watching over her. There would be little purpose in such a visit. At a later date, perhaps.” James’s tone was uncompromising, and Alvey said firmly, “My brother is right, Mr Thropton.”
“But there is another member of the family who stands in need of my consolation and solace—poor little Miss Parthenope, subject of such a rude and shocking assault. May I not take her some pastoral comfort?”
Again the eyes of James and Alvey met. His, this time, were inquiring.
“Well, I do not see why not,” Alvey said thoughtfully. “She might well be glad of the attention.” In default of the Major, she added internally.
“Oh, by all means visit Parthie if you wish to,” agreed James. “The wretched girl’s spirits were quite cut up by missing the party; I daresay she will be very much obliged to you. Amble: have one of the maids show Mr Thropton to Miss Parthie’s room.”
As Mr Thropton’s portly form disappeared upstairs in the wake of Tushie, James brushed a hand over his forehead and let out a long breath of relief.
“What a pestilential fellow,” he murmured. “No wonder my father beat a strategic retreat.”
And he gave Alvey what almost amounted to a smile.
Major Fenway had been sitting by Lady Winship’s bed for more than three hours when she stirred slightly and let out a faint moan. He held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, sprinkled her face with a few drops of cold water, and, when she finally opened her eyes, gave her a spoonful of sal volatile.
Turning his head he softly called the maid Ellen who had been sitting in a corner and came swiftly to the bedside.
“Oh, ma’am! Are you feeling better? What a dreadful fright you gave us! Is there owt you’d fancy? Some wine? Or tea?”
“No—no—nothing. Only to be left in peace.”
“Her extremities are very cold,” said Fenway. “Fetch some hot bottles. And a hot brick for her feet.”
These were brought, and Lady Winship submitted to having her hands chafed, a pillow placed beneath her head, and a comforter wrapped more warmly round her. But then she began to sob and said again, “Leave me alone! Only leave me in peace!”
“But ma’am, all we want is to help you.”
“Well—you can’t. Go away. No—not you—” to the Major. “You stay here. You saw my garden. You know what I have lost. Be off, Ellen! Shut the door as you go.”
“Oh, ma’am—” But Fenway gave Ellen a nod, and she did as she was bid.
“You are anxious to talk about the garden, Lady Winship?” said Fenway. “I believe that to do so might relieve your feelings.”
“No—yes—not about the garden. I deserved to lose it. I know I did.”
“Why so?” he asked gently.
She sobbed suddenly. “Oh, I have been very wicked. Listen—”
Going in search of the children, Alvey found the pele room empty. They had, however, carefully completed their tasks, which they must have tackled with unusual speed. Glancing out of the spiral stair window, as she went down again, she saw them beside the Lion pool, conducting one of their ceremonies. Their heads were bowed and they were chanting.
Alvey fought a short internal battle with herself. On the one hand Lord Love beckoned, more insistently than ever. The stress and trouble in the household, displayed in one way or another by almost all its inmates, made her long more than ever to escape to her private well-organized world; but, somehow, she had come to consider this pair of children as her own particular charge, and she felt specially responsible for them in the present situation. Duty won; sighing, she went on down and crossed the carriage sweep to the pool.
They had collected a basketful of the bruised and broken flower heads from Lady Winship’s garden, and were sprinkling them on the surface of the water, meanwhile quietly muttering a kind of litany.
“Deliver us from ourselves, O Mithras, god of crops, enemy of evil spirits, master of light, champion of armies, protector of souls.”
“And accept our sacrifice.”
“Deliver us from other people, also.”
“And accept our sacrifice.”
“Deliver us from people who seem to hate our family.”
“And accept our sacrifice.”
“Deliver us specially from Mr Thropton.”
“And accept our sacrifice.”
“Deliver us from ourselves, in case we offend thee.”
“And accept our sacrifice.”
Alvey waited until they had f
inished. Then Nish said to her,—
“Mamma won’t be cross, will she, that we took the flowers from her garden? They were all broken in any case; they would only have died.”
“No, I am sure she would not object. And she is still very ill, hardly conscious. Major Fenway is still with her.”
“We thought she would not mind,” said Tot. And he added gruffly, “Perhaps Mithras will help her to make a new garden.”
“Why did somebody do it?” cried Nish. “Do you think it was because of Annie and wee Geordie?” She gazed fearfully at Alvey. “Will they do it again?”
“We must hope not,” said Alvey, as calmly as she could. “We must hope that whoever it was now feels that they have avenged what—whatever wrong was done to them.”
The children were silent, obviously pondering over the savage act of reprisal, if reprisal it had been.
Nish said, “Suppose the person had done it to our islands! We never mind if the river rises and washes them away; that’s one thing; but if some person were to come and smash them all on purpose—”
To turn her thoughts in a less menacing direction, Alvey said, “Tell me some more about Mithras. You seem on very good terms with him. How did you know the Lion pool belonged to him? And where did you acquire all your knowledge of Mithraic practices?”
“Oh, it was a Latin exercise that Mr Thropton gave us. All about the underground temple, you know, and what the people said at their services—”
“And the bulls,” put in Tot.
“There are seven classes of people who serve Mithras.”
“The raven, the ghost, the soldier, the lion, the Persian—”
“The sun’s messenger, and the father.”
“Nish is a ghost, and I’m a soldier. You can be a raven, sister Emmy, if you wish—”
Alvey wondered what Mr Thropton’s attitude would be to this enthusiastic adoption by his pupils of the Mithraic religion.
“Have you talked to Mr Thropton about it?”
“Oh, no!” said Tot in disgust.
“Hush, there he comes,” said Nish. “Don’t let him see what we are about. Besides, Emmy, I want to ask you about my story, I’m stuck where the seals come out of the water and I don’t know what to make them say—”
They caught Alvey’s hands and pulled her away from the pool, to the cobbled path that ran beside the pele tower.
Mr Thropton saw them, but said nothing. Alvey had half expected that he would wish to speak to her again, but, to her relief, he neither paused nor beckoned, only threw towards her one very singular glance—hostile, it seemed, doubtful, suspicious, angry—before striding off homewards through the pine trees.
What had Parthie been saying to him?
I suppose Father would consider, thought Alvey, that I am encouraging these children in idolatry: that I should give them a severe talking-to and make them promise not to worship Mithras any more.
But, firstly, I am quite sure they would take not the least notice of my order; it would only impair the good understanding which is growing up between us; and, secondly, if the observances comfort them, I believe it is better they should continue; no doubt it will die away naturally as they grow older.
Heaven knows there is little enough comfort in this house at present.
Nish has a remarkable faculty for story-weaving, thought Alvey; and stifled a faint, envious twinge. Would this untaught, spontaneous gift one day excel that of her teacher?
Rather to Alvey’s surprise, the old lady came down to dinner. But she hardly appeared her usual self; she was vague, inattentive, her clothes were untidy, she spoke little, and ate practically nothing.
Sir Aydon had decreed that Nish and Tot should have their supper before the adults, in the kitchen, and retire early to bed; he was weary, he said, and did not wish to be bothered by the chatter and clatter of children. Parthie would have been insulted and furious at such an order, but dining-room dinner, to which they had only recently been promoted, was no treat to her younger siblings, and they obeyed without apparent regret. “Mrs Slaley gives us much better supper in the kitchen,” said Nish.
Parthie herself still kept to her room and sent down a plaintive request to the kitchen for “something light”.
“I tuk her oop a big basin o’ hodge-podge, Miss Emmy, an’ three lemon cheesecakes, an’ she et the lot; there’s naught amiss wi’ her appetite. But yon black eyes’ turning all manner o’ colours—green, yaller, an’ orange; racken she divvn’t want the Major to see it,” said Ellen.
The party around the dinner table, thus reduced in number, ate, for the most part, in silence, and talk was confined to perfunctory and trivial topics. Alvey felt it no part of the duty of a daughter of the house to make light conversation at such a time; she meditated about her story, and replied civilly but briefly to Major Fenway’s one or two polite inquiries about her own schooldays and the children’s lessons.
Sir Aydon’s mood was perturbed and gloomy; even for him, unusually so, even considering the distressing circumstances.
Informed kindly and carefully by the Major that his wife had recovered consciousness, had accepted a little sal volatile followed by a brandy posset with a sedative in it, had talked for a while in a rational manner but expressed a wish not to be troubled by seeing any members of her family just at present, Sir Aydon merely grunted. Whether this response denoted belief or disbelief, approval or disapproval, Alvey was unable to decide; really he is very uncivil to the Major, who, merely a guest after all, is taking such good care of his wife, she thought, and pitied James, obliged to be embarrassed by his parent’s uncouth behaviour. But James, crumbling untasted bread, appeared absorbed in his own thoughts, hardly aware of what took place at the table.
“Ah; errh; humph,” said Sir Aydon presently. “Great pity you had the ill-fortune to visit my house at such a time, Major Fenway.”
“Pray, sir, don’t regard it. I am only glad if I have been able to be of any assistance.”
“Harrumph. Appreciate what you have done. Don’t recall—that is—forget when you said you required to reach Edinburgh? I have sent off for madam’s own medical adviser from Newcastle—Dr Cunningham—fellow should be here tomorrow, I trust. Don’t wish to detain you unduly—presume you have business of your own to transact—”
Good god, thought Alvey outraged, now Sir Aydon wants to get rid of the Major. He is hinting that Fenway has outstayed his welcome, and in no very subtle or delicate way!
Pink with indignation, she opened her mouth to speak; but then she noticed the two young men exchange significant and wary looks. Well, it is no affair of mine, she decided; let James deal with the matter. Major Fenway is his friend, after all.
“Why, sir, the sooner I am embarked on my course of study in that town, the better it will be,” Fenway answered calmly. “Once assured of James’s well-being—and satisfied that Lady Winship is in a fair way to recover and under professional care—”
“Quite. Quite, quite, quite. She will do well enough now—persuaded of that. Sad, shocking business about the flower-garden—can’t be helped. Hope to replace it in due course. Think it best for all if the matter is alluded to as little as possible—less to remind her—”
No! thought Alvey in protest. That is not at all the way to deal with it.—And yet she felt a flicker of sympathy with Sir Aydon, recalling her strange flash of emotion on first seeing him, which had died away almost entirely as she grew to know him better. He wants his son, his house to himself, at this time of crisis he is irked by the presence of strangers, especially this friend of James’s whom he perhaps believes to be secretly in league with his son against him—poor man, he longs for his household to return to its old orderliness. Yet how can it? A household is a growing, changing organism like any other.
“Ma’am,” said Alvey in the drawing-room after dinner, “are you sure you would not prefer to r
etire?” For the old lady looked so troubled and restless, so shaky and frail; she made one or two ineffectual attempts to work at her embroidery, then put it away and, instead, drew a paper out of her reticule, on which she jotted down a couple of words with a trembling hand.
“Go to bed? No, no. I am better here. I am better here,” she repeated. “In case—” But she did not finish her sentence.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Mrs Winship beckoned her son to come and sit by her, which he rather reluctantly did.
The young men sat near Alvey, and their talk ranged over a number of topics, from the tumbling prices of corn, riots, frame-breaking, and the activities of Orator Hunt on the one hand, to the poetry of Lord Byron and various plays to be seen at Drury Lane and Covent Garden on the other. Both James and Fenway had seen Kean several times and agreed with the poet Coleridge that his acting was terrific—demonic—like flashes of lightning. Alvey had read about him, and longed to hear descriptions of his performances as Shylock, Richard III, or Iago. She listened intently and said little.
“You have never been to the London theatre, Miss Louisa?” Fenway asked.
“Oh, no,” she sighed. “If only it were possible—”
She had a tiny income bequeathed her by Cousin Hepzie, and a small stock of savings accrued from private teaching at the Abbey School; but, looking ahead to her precarious future, she had felt that visits to London theatres would be an unwarrantable extravagance.