Miss Mary Martha Crawford (25 page)

brought her fingers to her lips. His eyes were turned from hers, hi's head slightly bent while he spoke, saying, "There

was a young gentleman here an hour or so ago, he left you something in the tree trunk. "

She could not close her mouth. This man, this person, had been spying on her, on them. She knew instinctively that this was not the first

time he himself had viewed their meeting at this particular place, and likely he knew all about the previous letters that had been left in the hollow between the branches and which she had to stretch hard to reach into. And did he also know where she buried her letters? No. No.

Oh no. She was burning with humiliation; her face was afire. He was

looking at her again, saying stiffly now, "It's all right, 'tisn't what you're thinkin'. I wasn't spying, I've come to the rowan ring ever

since I could walk this far. Me da brought me first 'cos the outcrops had power to heal warts. You spit on the wart, rub it on the outcrop three times, then walk away and don't look back and the wart goes, and it does. So, so you see you're not the only one who uses the place.

That's what I'm tryin' to say. An' I just happened to see you and him, but I didn't spy. I'm no spyer; I've got enough in me head to keep me occupied without doin' a peepin' Tom, but I can say this, an' in truth, that I come here more often then either of you do." Her fingers were going through her hair now, and it seemed to bring home to her that she was without a head covering. Almost snatching at her hood, she pulled it forward ; then taking her eyes from him she looked towards the

tree.

He, too, turned and looked at the tree; then moving towards it he

reached up, put his hand into the hollow and, turning towards her, held out the letter.

She looked at it. She wanted to snatch it away from the broken-nailed fingers, from the rough-looking hard-skin hand; but she made no move towards it.

"Here, take it."

She took it, but did not look down at it but straight into his face, asking herself should she beg him not to mention what he knew of her meetings with William, for if he knew

all about her and her family, then he certainly knew the name of the man she was meeting, for the Hall lay not two miles from where he said his home was.

As if reading her thoughts, he broke into them saying gruffly, "You needn't be afeared of me an' what I might say;

I mind me own business, and let others get on with theirs. We're like that, we Robsons; we're not scum. We never have been. Drovers aye;

but that's only now; me gran da was a farmer with his own acreage until they started the enclosure business, an' like many another he was wiped out. The big pots, they never have enough, they must grab. An' why do they grab?

"Cos they're afeared, that's why. An' why are they more afeared than we are? Why?

"Cos they've got more to lose. That's why. Anyway, that's another subject al together; I just want you to know you can go back with an easy mind."

The wind seemed to have fallen, died away altogether, so quiet was the space between them, and all around, and she broke into it, saying

haltingly, "Thank you. Thank you very much. You're ... you're very understanding. Now I must say good day." She swallowed, made a motion with her head, then again said, "Good day," and turned from him. She had gone about half a dozen steps when he spoke again, not wishing her good day but saying, "If ever you want any help, a service done, I'd be pleased to give it, very willin'."

She half turned towards him, and as she looked at him she couldn't

believe he was real. The whole scene appeared now as if she were

dreaming it, his great mass of fair hair, his thin freckled face, his voice that of the common man yet the substance of his talk not common at all.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She was walking away again, and when she had passed beyond the far

boulders she did not run, nor did she open the letter that she still held in her hand. She didn't open it until she was nearing the wood

that led down to the river.

Leaning, as if exhausted, against a tree trunk, she hastily split open the envelope and read:

"My dear Nancy, I am so sorry I shall be unable to see you during my present visit home; circumstances are such that I must pay a visit

abroad. Nor do I expect to be home for the summer term. Nevertheless, I shall be thinking of you. I must say that I shall always think of

you no matter what happens, and I thank you from my heart for all the pleasure you have afforded me in the past. Please think of me kindly.

Ever your true friend, William.

Her mouth was agape again, the back of her head touching the trunk, her eyes gazing upwards into the branches, while her hands hung by her

sides, the letter dropping from the fingers of one hand. No! No! She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't believe it. She was no fool, she

wasn't such a silly young girl that she didn't know that this was a

dismissal, a polite good-bye. No, he couldn't do this. He mustn't do this. She must see him.

"Lady Brockdean's visitor is a young French lady." She could hear Mildred's voice as she chattered away last night.

"She's not beautiful, but very smart. Oh, really elegant. Her suit was edged with fur, and she wore a fur hat, and she spoke English very well, but quaintly. They were all very merry. Miss Rosalind, William, and her."

They were all very merry. They were all very merry. They were all

very merry.

No! No! William, you mustn't do this. You promised. You promised,

since you first kissed me when I was but fourteen. You always said one day we should marry.

She swung round and pressed her face tight against the bark of the tree while her arms encircled it, and she prayed, "Oh, Lord, Lord, don't let it happen. I won't be able to live, I won't be able to bear it.

Please Lord, there'll only ever be s-mmc-k 181 William. If I don't

marry William I'll marry no one.... I'll be like Aunt Sophie...."

As if the tree had spoken the last words she sprang back from it, then bteat her fists against it, crying at it, "No! no! I won't, I can't, I can't be like Aunt Sophie." And she continued to batter her fists against the trunk until suddenly, all strength leaving her body, she slumped and slid down to the foot of the tree and, her face buried in her hands, she rocked herself while the tears flowed through her

fingers. It was some time later, the spasm over, she was leaning side wards against the trunk gasping when of a sudden she turned about and looked back over the way she had come. For a moment she had the idea that that young man was somewhere in the trees watching her. Although she could see no one, she dragged herself hastily to her feet and began to walk homewards.

She did not run but all along the way she cried, a slow quiet painful crying, the while telling herself that this wasn't the end, it couldn't be the end. She would write to him, write to him openly the minute she reached home, and she would catch the carrier cart on its return to

Hexham, and the driver would post the letter for her; she would ask him to do it immediately he reached the town, and it would be delivered at the Hall tomorrow. In it she would ask him, beg him, to come and see her before he took his leave. And he must come. She must look on him again, touch his face, feel his arms about her, and when they were

close he could not but help continue their association.

It was when she came in sight of the house that she stopped. If Martha Mary saw her in such distress she'd want an explanation. What could

she tell her? The truth? Oh no. Yet she couldn't bear to suffer this alone. Yet she would be alone, she'd always be alone if William went out of her life, and she would pine, pine away and die. Martha Mary

would have to know.

But first she must write that letter and to do so she must get into the house without anyone seeing her. She would let herself in by the

drawing-room window; she knew how to

lift the latch from the outside, Martha Mary' would be in the kitchen at this time of day; if not, she would be attending to Aunt Sophie.

There were writing materials in the drawing- room; she would write the letter there, then slip out again . Nancy had been right about one

thing. Martha had been watching her.

She had watched both her departure and her return. She had seen her go round to the side of the house, and she had heard the window creak

below.

She now held her head to the side listening for the drawing-room door to open and for the soft padding of footsteps on the stairs, because it was evident Nancy wanted to get to her room without being seen; but

when she heard no such sounds she looked down towards the floor

puzzled.

She went quickly out of the bedroom, across the landing and down the stairs, then walked softly towards the drawing-room door and paused' a moment before opening it.

Nancy was seated at the escritoire. She didn't swing round in a

startled fashion but she put both hands over the paper on the desk

before turning her head slowly and looking down the room.

"What is it, dear?" Martha Mary was standing at her side bending over her, looking down on her bowed head.

"Tell me, come." And she took her by the shoulders and turned her about.

"You can tell me. Anyway, I think I know."

Nancy raised her face upwards. The tears were raining down her cheeks again and she stammered "Ab ... about William?"

"Yes, about William."

"Oh! Martha Mary." Her head was buried against Martha's waist now, and Martha's arms were about her holding her tight.

As Martha stroked the tousled brown hair she looked towards the window.

How simple they all were, how trusting, even Mildred, for from her

chatter last night she was still of the opinion that Lady Brockdean had an interest in her. When she realized that it was condescension, at

best

mere politeness on a lady's part, would her hurt be comparable with

Nancy's? Well, it all depended on what value you put on your

desires.

She pressed Nancy gently from her now, and taking a handkerchief she wiped her face, saying, "There now, there now; no more, or else you'll be ill."

"I feel ill now, Martha Mary."

"I know you do, dear. I know you do."

"I love him."

To this Martha wanted to say, "You imagine you do, you're so young'; but what she said was, "This will pass, dear. I promise you this will pass. And you've only known him for a short duration...."

"No, no--' Nancy was shaking her head vigorously now' that isn't true.

I've known him for years."

"Well yes, of course, I know that, dear, but not on--' she had to force herself, to end familiar terms."

"But yes, Martha Mary." Nancy's tear-stained face was upturned and her expression pathetic.

"Yes, on familiar terms. We ... we were going to be married; he promised as soon as he came of age. We were secretly engaged, we were.

We have been for over a year now." Martha drew back and stared

open-mouthed at this young and beloved sister before she exclaimed in a tone that held deep reprimand, "Oh, Nancy!"

"Well, I knew how you'd look upon it, but.... And I wanted to tell you, I did, I did, but I promised him to keep it secret. And he promised me faithfully. He did, he did." Her head was now wagging from side to side.

"Only a few weeks ago when we met and he--' Her head now drooped deep on to her chest, but almost instantly it was jerked upwards by Martha gripping her shoulders and hissing, " You didn't, Nancy! You never allowed him to . "

"No, no, Martha Mary, not that, but' the face crumpled like a child's

'but nearly, because he promised.... Please, please don't look so

shocked, don't, please."

But Martha was shocked, profoundly. So she had thought a moment ago

that they were all simple, but Nancy was no

longer simple in that way. And she was forced to wonder, too, now if Mildred was, for sometimes her conversation inferred that there was

nothing she didn't know. It would appear that she herself was the only simpleton among them.

She stared down into Nancy's distressed face, seeing her now in a new light as if she were much older than herself; and she was older, in

that she had studied duplicity and carried it through, not for just a few weeks or months, but, as she admitted, for years. What had she

said?

"No, no, Martha Mary, not that, but nearly." What liberties had she allowed William Brockdean to take with her that she could say but

nearly? Yet did she really realize the seriousness of her conduct, for she had said those words, but nearly, as a child might confess to some small misdemeanour?

Nancy had picked up her letter from the table, and was now saying, "I'm going to write to him and ask him ..." But Martha cut her words off, demanding now, "What happened today when you met?"

"He... he didn't come. He left a letter."

"A letter? Then let me see it."

"No, Martha."

"Let me see it."

Nancy now put her hand inside the bodice of her dress and slowly

withdrew the envelope, and she watched Martha's face as she read the letter, but when Martha looked at lier and said slowly, "This is a breaking off, a dismissal in fact," she cried back at her, "No1 No!"

"But it is, Nancy." Again she was gripping Nancy's shoulders.

"It's as plain as a pikestaff. He is telling you that the association is ended."

"But Martha Mary--' Nancy's voice was almost a whimper now 'you don't know what he said, what happened, what..." Martha drew in a long breath before she spoke again.

"I have a very good idea. Nancy."

Her words coming from deep within her throat, she went on, "I know that he has deceived you. To my mind he's a young scoundrel and this

letter

proves it; it is a polite and heartless dismissal. And remember what Mildred said last night aJbout the French visitor. Doesn't he say here