The Stress of Her Regard (71 page)

"Right, John," said Crawford. "And I trust you've done what we've said, and passed the advice on to your own children."

"Well, sure, I just—never quite—knew the whole extent of
why
."

Crawford finished his wine. "You do now, son."

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Somehow he could still see the yard, the trees and the grass . . . but it couldn't be the yard of the inn at Warnham, for he could see for miles, across a valley, on the floor of which stood hundreds of tall stones, and he was pulling a wagon in which sat a wickedly grinning old man, older by far than even himself, and the old man was singing a French song with a merry tune but sad lyrics. . . .

Keats, young and healthy again, was riding a horse past them. He waved as he passed, and Crawford thought there was gratitude in the look he flashed to him as he galloped away.

And Byron was there, his hair still more dark than gray. The lord was smiling as he raised a smoking pistol, for his shot had punched the coin far out over the
maremma.
"Our poor children," Byron said. . . .

Shelley was farther away. Perhaps he was looking for the coin Byron had shot at, for he was walking aimlessly through the grass—but it wasn't the saw-grass of the
maremma
—he was in a garden, and Crawford knew he was looking for himself, for his own image.

Somewhere out in these meadows Crawford knew that he would find Josephine again, eventually. He knew he would find her . . . he always had before.

He stepped forward, not limping now, and strode off after his friends.

The sun was red and low now, and the yard was in shadow.

"Wait for us inside, would you, John?" said Josephine softly as she stroked Crawford's limp hand. "We'll both be . . . ready to go soon now."

Their son stood up and walked back into the inn, and Josephine held her husband's still warm hand and listened to her own heartbeat. "Don't stray far, Michael," she said softly. "I know you can't do it without help."

She leaned back in her chair and breathed the evening air deeply, still holding Crawford's hand. "Two times two is four," she said dreamily. "Two times three is six. Two times four is eight. Two times five is ten . . ."

After a while the litany faded into silence, and stars began to appear in the darkening sky. Until John came out again there was no sound in the yard—no frogs called, no insects sang, the tree branches stood silent, and no breath disturbed the motionless air.