The Wilding (27 page)

Now, however, he was sunk down again. More, I had seen my aunt, that close-pent furnace of a woman, go in a trice from screams of rage to a mute, constricted helplessness. A little more passion, or a little less bodily strength, and she would have entered upon the life eternal.

Learning the meaning of ‘coming to an end’ was a bitter business. Stupidly, painfully, I got it by heart that any talk, any quarrel or kindness I had shared with Tamar would never be taken up, never finished, not if I lived to be ninety. The thread between us had been snapped.
An end. Never
. These words, that had been mere sounds before, now grew teeth and gnawed at me.

I cannot tell how I got through the next few weeks. As March moved into April and the birds carried out their shameless courtships in trees and on house-tops I struggled through each day as if imprisoned in a long dark tunnel. In April came warmth and sweetness: the earth opened up, breathing that nameless, stirring odour that rises from the abundant body of Nature waking from her long sleep.

During that time I was tormented by the desire to speak with Tamar. Was it lust – wanting to take up again something I knew was foul and forbidden? It might be so. I could not say what I wanted, not exactly; I could not think like other men. What I yearned for was an abomination, and that knowledge taught me to find excuses even in the privacy of my own thoughts. And yet, even in the midst of all this confusion, there was one thing clear in my mind: I had a question I must put to her, one only she could answer.

I think I may say, in all modesty, that I had gained a little wisdom, though not much, from the events of the last few months. I endeavoured not to yield to melancholy without a struggle; I strove to be content. I was constantly in company with my parents, I returned to my old friendly fellowship with our neighbours, I dug until my limbs trembled, I even read sermons. Starved, my desire grew thin and keen as a blade and dug into my heart until I thought that organ would be sliced in two. I told myself that Tamar and Joan must think themselves in heaven; that God and my earthly father (I mean Mathew) had brought goodness out of my evil, and the least I could do was refrain from meddling, and leave their work to bear fruit.

Spring came on apace. By May the bushes were clotted with blooms and young girls carried armfuls of white blossom into the houses. A maypole was set up on the green; lovers ran laughing into the woods to seek flowers there, and no doubt found a few sweet blossoms not mentioned in the herbal. May filled me with longing so that I was weak as the new lambs staggering in the fields.

It was in May that I received a letter from my aunt, summoning me once more to End House.

*

‘I don’t think she would be violent, not now,’ I said.

‘Mind yourself – out of my way.’ She bustled round the bed, tweaking at the covers.

‘Father could go with me.’

Mother straightened, pushed back her hair and stared at me. ‘You said you’d never have any more dealings with her! And now, you
want
to go. Don’t you?’

‘I suppose I do,’ I said, laughing.

Aunt Harriet’s letter informed me that she was confined to bed. I was frankly curious as to how the virago bore up under her suffering, and whether she still terrorised all around her. Besides, it was plain that she had summoned me for
something
.

What might that something be? I allowed myself to indulge a senseless hope that Tamar might be there, or near there, or might have taken possession of some part of the house – even that she might be installed once more in the cave. Any man who has been crossed in love (I will no longer shrink from the word) knows how these fancies rise up like steam and waft themselves about the brain.

Naturally, I spoke only of Aunt Harriet.

‘Mother, how can she hurt me? She’s bedridden.’

‘She’s Harriet,’ Mother answered. ‘I can’t say worse of her than that.’

*

My father also opposed my going when we discussed the letter at supper-time. I gathered that Mother had talked with him beforehand, prompting him to accompany me to End House, but he was unmoving: he would not.

‘Haven’t you had enough of running back and forth over half the county?’ he demanded. ‘I thought our troubles might have taught you something.’

I pointed out that this was no mad freak like my taking Tamar to the inn. Hateful as my aunt might be, there was no wickedness in paying her a visit.

‘There’s folly; and sometimes there’s not a hair between the two.’

I said I was not proposing to sneak away by deceit.

‘But you’re defying me.’

‘I’ll be back in no time,’ I promised.

‘What, on foot!’

My heart sank as I remembered that both horses, ours and Simon’s, were on loan to Samuel Beast, but I looked Father in the eye and said, ‘Two days.’

‘I can say more,’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. ‘Whatever she gets you into, you must get out of by yourself.’

Harsh words, had I not known them to be prompted by love and fear. ‘I’ll come back in one piece,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

* * *

When I did leave for Tetton Green I rose in darkness, long before anyone else was stirring. This was not a deception – my parents would naturally guess where I was gone, and I had left them a note to dispel any doubt – but I wished to avoid last-minute pleadings from Mother. It did cross my mind, as I placed the note on the table, that Father might repent of his sternness, reclaim the horse and come after me; but this was not likely. Both my parents had maintained a more distant demeanour towards me during the past few days, as if accepting that though stubborn, I was still of age, and could no longer be guarded and guided like a boy.

In a calm frame of mind, then, if not precisely a cheerful one, I filled up my pockets in the pantry and set out to walk to End House.

*

Between Spadboro and the next village lies a stretch of lane that cuts through a long, thin wood. The wood sprawls for some two miles and the lane is bordered, on either side, by shallow ditches whose purpose is long forgotten. Folk walking on moonless nights had been known to fall into these ditches, but the moon, though on the wane, gave sufficient light for me to pass safely between them. I walked briskly, not for fear (ours is a quiet stretch of country) but to keep myself warm.

The sky was clear as fine old cider and the Plough hung sparkling in the sky directly before me. I have seldom time or inclination to gaze at the stars but on this occasion, deprived of company, I amused myself with a fancy that it had cut open this passage through the wood, expressly for me. Its brilliance and that of the other lights sprinkled over the heavens told me that once the sun was risen, we were set for a warm day. I marched along admiring the beauty of God’s creation until, happening to glance to my right, I saw something large and white move in the ditch and at once sink down again.

Of the scalding terror of that moment, the best I can say is that I felt it, and hope never to feel it again. I strained to see the white thing, whatever it might be, with such intensity that dots swarmed before my eyes and I was good as blind – so the flesh betrays us at our time of need – and when my sight cleared, everything was as it had been. The movement did not come again, though I could perceive a small white edge that convinced me I was not mistaken. As I began to fear less, and think more, it came to me that the mysterious object might be a sheep fallen in and injured. But no: a sheep would have cried out by now, and this presence, whatever it was, made not a sound.

I was long past any dread of Robin. My fear was that I had glimpsed a living soul crouching in the ditch, a man who would do away with me for my coat (just then a precious shield against the chill breeze) and my shoes. If, on the other hand, he had not noticed me, the chances were that he was drunk, and I might creep away if I allowed time for him to fall asleep.

Standing stock-still, fearing that at any moment the white shape might rise again, was agony. At last, persuaded that any man intending to harm me d have done so by now, I crept forward to the ditch.

It was indeed a man – and a woman, too – lying wrapped round in white cloth. This, then, was the source of my terror: a bed-sheet stolen from some line and spread over the pair while they slept. It was not hard to understand the rest. A tramping couple, weary and finding the ditch dry, had crawled into it out of the wind. What I had witnessed was some attempt to ease their limbs as they lay huddled together; that they were now sunk into sleep again, I was assured by a faint, buzzing snore. The woman’s face, upturned in the moonlight, was pinched and degraded. She wore no cap, and I thought how her hair must be full of dust and leaves and vermin. Of the man I could see only the swell of his back, and a part of his jaw and ear.

It came to me that this might well stand for some episode from Joan’s story, or Tamar’s, and the thought filled me with sorrow. Was the woman the child of godly parents, ruined by the love of a masterless man? Or was she a Delilah who had brought low some village Samson once respected by his neighbours? Perhaps they had neither of them known a better life. My heart contracted with pity. I was not such a fool, however, as to fancy myself safe in their company, and I delicately moved off until there was a good distance between them and me. As I walked on, I carried with me the melancholy gleam of moonlight on that sheet of theirs, such a wretched shelter as to be scarcely worth the stealing. I wondered was it a bridal bed of sorts, and whether, one cold night, it would be their shroud.

*

And now the sky was streaked with light: cocks on distant farms began to greet the sun. The wood and the ground beneath me turned grey, then green. I was strolling over banks of grass and flowers that a few weeks before had been bare and slimy with mud, spring’s sweet carpet spread for me. The world, that had treated harshly those two in the ditch, seemed for once to be on my side and of my mind.

I kept my spirits up by telling myself no evil could come of this visit. It had angered my father, but he could not forbid me to go and once I returned home unhurt, we would quickly make things up. Nor could anything I did harm Tamar and her mother, who would never lie cold again as long as they lived. They had, of course, ceased to draw an allowance from my father; they no longer needed his help. I am as selfish as most men, but not entirely so, and in this instance I can honestly say I was free of grudging jealousy; nay, I even took pleasure in the knowledge that the Seatons were heirs to End House. I pictured Tamar dozing by the fire and eating comfits, instead of washing foul linen, and Joan (if she lived that long) sleeping once more in her old bed. Or would she prefer to gaze up each morning at Harriet’s richly embroidered hangings? I wondered what the servants would make of them, and if they would go elsewhere or stay on under their new mistresses. Geoffrey, for instance: surely he must go? He had sent Joan on her way too harshly, too many times – unless she retained him for the pleasure of giving him orders. With such fancies as these I shortened the way to Tetton Green.

* * *

Rose opened the door and stared in disbelief. Manners prompted her to a hasty curtsey, after which she remained, speechless, planted in the doorway.

‘Well, Rose, aren’t you going to let me in?’ I hinted. ‘I’m invited, after all.’

This Rose seemed unable to comprehend. I supposed that after the scenes she had witnessed her slowness was quite natural, so I produced my aunt’s letter.

‘Who took this for her?’ Rose murmured. ‘Not Geoffrey! Not I!’

‘Hannah, then.’ Smiling, I watched her puzzle over it. Her eyes went straight to the signature, which was evidently all she could recognise, then looked back into mine. She handed me the letter, saying with more frankness than flattery, ‘Is it really an invitation, Sir? I never thought you’d show your face.’

‘Of course it is.’ I hemmed to indicate that I meant business, and made to enter the house. Rose stumbled to one side.

‘Oh, pardon me – pray enter, Sir, enter –’

She was scarlet. Could this really be the same Rose who used to gossip with me in the kitchen? I wondered what had been said of me in my absence, if here was a servant shaken to pieces merely at finding me on the doorstep.

‘If you’ll wait here, Master Jon,’ said Rose, leading me to the chairs Father and I had occupied on our last memorable visit. As then, a splendid fire burned in the grate – End House was never very warm, even in May – and as I sat by the crackling logs, stretching my legs towards them, I recalled how I had helped Tamar to pilfer from the woodpile. Though only a few months past, it seemed distant as a childhood prank.

My intention on the road had been to maintain a kind of chill dignity towards Aunt Harriet, neither shouting nor wrangling but making my disdain quite clear. I had even rehearsed some shrewd and telling speeches, if I could but find a way to introduce them into our talk. Now I was arrived, however, and soon to confront her, those marvels of eloquence I had composed on the road went flying up the chimney with the sparks.

‘If you please, Master Jon,’ said a soft voice, making me jump. Hannah Reele stood next to me. ‘Mrs Dymond is abed. She’ll receive you in her chamber.’

We climbed the stairs in silence apart from the squeak of Hannah’s shoes on the polished wood. They continued to squeak and creak all the way along the corridor where I had searched for her on my last day in this house. Hannah knocked at the chamber door, opened it without waiting for a reply and led me to the bed, where the hangings were already pulled aside. I was in the presence of my aunt.