The Shadow of the Lynx (4 page)

“You’ve got it wrong. He’s the one who is going to protect you.”

“If I don’t want to stay I shall come back here.”

He bowed his head.

There would be ways and means, I am sure,” I added.

“And you’d find them, I reckon.”

I had eaten one scone; he finished the entire plateful. He folded his arms and smiled at me as though he found me amusing. I was not sure what to make of him. Of one thing I was certain. Messrs Marlin Sons and Barlow could not have known that he had come alone to take me back with him for they, like Miss Emily, would surely consider this rather improper.

“But,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud, “I suppose you are a sort of brother.”

He laughed.

“I reckon so. Sister Nora. And that makes everything all right. You don’t think so.”

“You have a habit of attempting to read people’s thoughts … not always correctly.”

“But you are pleased.”

“It’s too soon to answer that question. I hardly know you.”

“We’re pleased to have a new sister.”

I was silent for a while; then I said, “How did my father die?”

“Haven’t they told you?”

They merely said it was an accident. “

“An accident? He should have handed over the gold, then they wouldn’t have shot him.”

“They shot him! Who?”

“No one knows who. He’d been out to the mine and was on his way back on the dray, bringing gold with him. There was a hold-up. They were waylaid. It often happens. Those fellows have a nose for gold. They know when it’s being carried. So they held up the dray five miles out

of Cradle > Creek. Your father wouldn’t give it up so they shot him.” I felt bewildered. I had imagined his falling from a tree or being thrown from his horse. I had never thought of murder.

“So,” I said slowly, ‘someone killed him. “

Stirling nodded.

“It happens now and then. It’s a wild country and life’s cheaper there than it is over here.”

“This was my father!” I felt furiously angry because someone had come along with a gun and wantonly taken that precious life. There was a new emotion to supersede my grief anger against my father’s murderer.

“If he had given up the gold he wouldn’t have died,” said Stirling.

“Gold!” I said angrily.

“That’s what they are all after. It’s what they all want.”

“And this … Lynx … he does too?”

Stirling smiled.

“He wants it. He’s determined to find it one day so he will.”

“How I wish my father had never got this idea into his head! If he hadn’t he would be here now.”

It was too much to contemplate. I turned away, deter mined that he should not ace my intense emotion.

“It’s like a fever,” he said.

“It gets into your brain. You think of everything you want in life and if you find gold … real gold … thousands of nuggets … you can have it.”

Everything? ” I said.

“Everything you can think of.”

“My father found gold, it seems, and lost his life preserving it, and I lost him.”

“You’re upset. You wait till you get out there. You’ll understand then. It’s a great life. You never know when you’ll make a strike.

It’s a constant challenge, a constant hope!

“And when you do someone kills you for it.”

“That’s the life out there. Your father had bad luck ” It’g . hateful. “

“It’s life. I’ve upset you. I should have broken it gently. The only thing that matters is that it happened.”

He stood up.

“You go back to your room. You rest awhile;

and then well have some dinner together and talk some more. It’s the best thing. “

I went up to my room, leaving him in the inn parlour. Was there to be no end to the shocks I was receiving, I asked myself. So he had been

murdered. Killed in cold blood. It was fantastic. I pictured the dray lumbering along the road, the masked figure hiding unaer me trees and men ‘trtanu and deliver.

Forfeit your gold or your life. ” In my imagination I could see him clearly, the gold in bags about his waist perhaps. And he would say to himself: ” No, this is my gold . mine and Nora’s. ” Perhaps he was planning to bring me out to him so that I could share in the fortune, if fortune it was. So when the gun was pointing at him he refused to give up his gold, and so he gave up his life.

“I hate gold,” I said aloud.

“I wish it had never been discovered.” I thought in fury of the glittering eyes behind the mask, of a trigger that was coolly pulled, and a report that had put an end to all my happiness. Oh, how I hated my father’s murderer!

He had not died immediately. They were able to take him to Lynx and he wrote his last letter to me. But he was dying then. And it need never have happened.

Stirling was right. I needed to be alone. This was almost as great a shock as the news of my father’s death had been. It had not been an accident. It was deliberate murder.

I went to the window and looked out. Below me was the street with its ancient houses. I could see the spire of the church and the towers of the house they called Whiteladies. It had once been a convent, I remembered; the nuns had worn white habits; and this inn would have been there at the time. The pilgrims on their way to Canterbury would have stopped here—the last halt before they reached their goal.

Looking down on the street I could so easily picture them, weary and footsore, yet relieved because the host of the Falcon Inn was waiting to welcome them and offer them food and shelter before they went on to Canterbury.

As I stood at the window I saw Stirling come out of the inn. I watched him walk purposefully down the street taking long strides, and looking as though he knew exactly where he was going.

So stunned had I been by first finding that he had come instead of Miss Herrick to take me to Australia and then by his revelations about my father’s death that I had not had time to consider him. So . he was the son of that man Lynx who was fast becoming a symbol in my mind. The all-powerful Lynx of whom people spoke with awe and the utmost respect. Why had Lynx not sent his daughter? Perhaps he did not care that she should travel alone. I had imagined her to be a middleaged lady. But why had they

SOL.

-B 25

said Miss nerricK would cume ana inc ii oui a yuung man? It was all very strange.

Stirling had turned off the main street. I wondered where he had gone.

His appearing like that had disturbed my train of thought. The sunlit street looked inviting. I could think better out of doors, I assured myself; so I put on my cape and went out. There were few people about.

A lady with a parasol strolled by on the other side; a dog lay sleeping in a doorway. I walked down the street, glancing as I passed at the shop window where behind bottle glass wools, ribbons, hats and dresses were displayed. There was nothing there to interest me, so I went on and came to the turning which Stirling had taken. It led up a hill and there was a signpost which said: To Whiteladies’.

As I mounted the hill the grey walls came into sight;

and when I reached the top I could look down and see the house in all its splendour. I knew that I could never forget it. I told myself afterwards that I knew even then what an important part it was to play in my life. I was spellbound, bewitched, and in that moment forgot everything else but the magic of those towers, the ambience of monastic seclusion, the mullioned windows, the curved arches, the turrets and the tower, the sun shining on flinty grey walls. One almost expected to hear the sound of bells calling the nuns to prayer and to see white-clad figures emerging from the cloister.

I had an overwhelming desire to see more. 1 started to run downhill and I did not stop until I stood before the tall wrought-iron gate.

This gate in itself was fascinating. I studied the intricate scrolls and mouldings; some white metal had been inlaid on the iron work on either side. I looked closer and saw that the decoration represented nuns. White Ladies, I thought; and I wondered whether it was the original gate which had stood there when there was a convent beyond it, long before the present house had been built. The grey stone wall stretched out on either side of the gates. Moss and lichen grew on it.

How I should have loved to open the gate and walk into those magic precincts. This was more than a passing fancy; it was an urge which I had great difficulty in restraining. But how could one walk into someone’s private house simply because it seemed the most fascinating place one had ever seen! I looked about me-There was a deep stillness

everywhere. I felt completely alone. I remembered that Stirling had come this way. He would probably have passed this house without noticing it. I had decided that he would be lacking in imagination, and to him this would merely be a grey stone building; he would not think it exciting because centuries ago nuns in white robes had lived here. I wondered what it felt like to be shut away from the world; and I was suddenly interested and relieved to find that my thoughts had turned temporarily from my personal tragedy.

The wall was frustratingly high and as I walked along beside it I could only see the tower projecting above it. The view from the hilltop was much more revealing—only from that vantage point there was a sense of remoteness. Here one might be closer but the wall shut one out.

It seemed strange that when I was on the verge of going to a new country I should be so intrigued by an old house which I had never seen before and it seemed unlikely I should ever see again. Perhaps it was because I had been indifferent to everything for so long that I seized on this and believed I was more interested than I actually was.

As I walked, beside the wall I heard voices.

“Ellen has brought out the tea, Lucie.” It was a clear high voice, very pleasant and I longed to see its owner.

“I will see if Lady Cardew is ready,” said another voice, deeper, slightly husky.

They went on talking but their voices were lowered and I could not hear what they were saying. What sort of people, I wondered, lived in this house? I must discover. I was in such a strange mood that I had almost convinced myself that if I could see on the other side of the wall I would find two white-robed nuns—ghosts from the past.

An enormous oak tree spread its branches over the walls. Its acorns would surely fall on Whiteladies’ land. I studied the tree speculatively. I had not climbed a tree for some time. Such activities had not been encouraged at Danesworth House; but there was a fork which would make an adequate if not comfortable seat. I could not climb a tree. It was too undignified. Besides, what bad manners to spy on people. I fingered the soft silk scarf which my father had given me before he went to Australia; it was a soft shade of green and I loved it for itself in addition to the fact that it was one of his last gifts. I am sure he would have climbed the tree. Miss Emily would be horrified. That decided me—particularly

as 1 hearu uie voices again.

“Are you feeling better. Mamma?” That was the clear young voice.

So I climbed to the fork of the tree which was just high enough to permit me to see over.

It was a beautiful scene. The grass was like green velvet, soft and smooth with an air of having been well tended through the centuries;

there were flower beds containing roses and lavender; a fountain was throwing its silver spray over a white statue; the green shrubs had been cut into the shape of birds; a peacock strutted across the lawn displaying his magnificent tail while a plain little peahen followed in his glorious wake. It was a scene of utter peace. Close to the pond was a table laid for tea over which a big blue and white sunshade had been set; and seated at the table was a girl of about my age. She looked as though she were tall;

she was certainly slender, a dainty Dresden figure. Her honey coloured hair hung in long ringlets down her back; her gown was of pale blue with white lace collar and cuffs. She fitted the scene perfectly. There was another woman; she must be Lucie, I decided. She was about ten years older than the girl; and in a bath chair was a woman whom I guessed to be “Mamma’, fair-haired like the girl, delicate and fragile-looking with the same Dresden quality.

“It’s pleasant in the shade. Mamma,” said the girl.

“I do hope so.” The voice was a little peevish.

“You know how the heat upsets me. Lucie, where are my smelling salts?”

I watched them talking together. Lucie had brought the chair closer to the girl who rose to make sure that the cushion behind Mamma’s head was in the best place. Lucie went across the lawn presumably to fetch the smelling salts. I imagined her to be a companion, a higher servant, perhaps a poor relation. Poor Lucie!

They were talking but I only heard their voices when the breeze carried them to me. This breeze, which could be strong when it blew, was intermittent. What happened next was due to it. The scarf about my neck had become loosened during my climb. I had not noticed this and as I leaned forward to see and hear better, it caught in a branch and was dragged from my neck. It hung lightly suspended on the tree but as I was about to take it a stronger gust of wind caught it and, snatching it from me, carried it over the wall mischievously as though to punish me for eavesdropping. It

fluttered across the grass ana came to rest close to the group at the tea table but they did not seem to see it.

I was dismayed, thinking of the occasion when my father had given it to me. I either had to call to them and ask them to give it to me or to lose it. I made up my mind that I could not shout to them from the tree. I would call at the house and concoct some story about its blowing over my head—which it had done—and I certainly would not tell them that inquisitiveness had made me climb a tree to spy on them.

I slid down to the foot of the tree and in my haste grazed my hand which started to bleed a little. While I was staring at it ruefully Stirling came towards me.

“Oak trees have, their uses,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well. You were spying on the tea party.”

“How could you know that unless you were spying too?”