The Spring of the Tiger Page 10

  "You've acted in too many plays. They get mixed up with real life."

  "The fact remains," said my mother, "that if I were out of the way your father could marr}' again, couldn't he? Perhaps then he'd be luck}'and get a son."

  "Don't talk such nonsense. You're not 'out of the way' as you call it. You're here and here you are going to stay. You've got me to look after you, haven't you?"

  She smiled at me fondly. "Dear Siddons," she said. "Always a comfort. I can't tell you what a relief it is that you are with me in this strange house of shadows."

  I got up and poured more tea before she grew maudlin, yet at the same time I felt uneasy. There was something in the house, something eerie, something warning.

  Christmas was approaching and I suggested we decorate the house with holly and ivy. I wondered what a Christmas would be like at the Grange. I did know that two blankets and a goose were presented to each household in the village from the big house and that that was a custom which had gone on for years. I learned that we attended the midnight service on Christmas Eve and another on Christmas morning, that the carol singers called on

  Christmas Eve and that the vicarage family and the doctor and his wife came to sup with us on the evening of Christmas Day. Dinner was served at midday so that the servants could have the evening to themselves. I supposed that Christmases had gone on like that for years.

  Celia and I rode now and then together. The aunts had graciously allowed her to use one of the horses from the stable, which showed how highly they regarded her. I had always enjoyed riding and it was pleasant to have a companion. We were both busy decorating the church for Christmas and our own hall where the children's party was held. The weather turned very cold and the Cannon girls said they were hoping for a white Christmas. Last year there had been skating on the ponds, they told us.

  My mother grew even more fretful and talked of other Christmases and she referred bitterly to that one when Tom had persuaded her to take part in pantomime. It had been a great mistake.

  The snow held off until Twelfth Night, but the wind was blowing strongly from the east and it was bitterly cold. My mother had always hated wintry weather and she went down with one of her colds. Celia and I persuaded her to stay in bed, which she did readily enough.

  The cold left her with a cough that persisted through January. The snow had come and the countryside was blanketed in white. The forest had become an enchanted place, something out of Grimms' fairy tales. I would put on heavy boots and go for long walks. Celia came with me. We liked to stop at an inn called The Foresters and eat a hot pie and drink a mug of cider.

  I remember well the day Celia spoke of my mother. She looked very grave as she said: "I think she is more ill than you realize. She has another cold coming on. It's so soon after the other."

  "She does have these bad colds," I said.

  "She is so unhappy here," replied Celia quietly.

  "She was unhappy in London. Everything went wrong for her after the tragedy. If she could have gone on acting she might have recovered."

  Celia nodded. "Do you think she should have a doctor?"

  "She doesn't want one. I think we should wait awhile. She just has a cold."

  "You would know best," said Celia.

  She was more pensive than usual as we went back to the house.

  I thought how good she was for there was no doubt that she was deeply concerned about my mother. I was grateful to her because I often escaped from my mother knowing that Celia was with her. Escaped seems a strange word, but I have to confess that I was a little wear)' of my mother's perpetual sighing for the past and her inability to make the best of the present. I found her company more and more depressing and I realized with relief that Celia was able to comfort her better than I could. Celia genuinely admired her and could give her some of that adulation for which she craved, I could then, with a good conscience, go to the library and read for hours; and sometimes I would take a book to the gallery. I loved being there among my ancestors and I would study the painted pearls and make up stories about them. These sessions in the galler}' brought me a certain satisfaction. We were a romantic family—most of all my father and my mysterious half sister, whom I had never seen.

  It was the last day of Januar\ I remembered the occasion for a long time afterward. My mother had not improved and on Celia's advice I had suggested we ask the doctor to look at her. Dr. Ber-ryman, that friend of the family who, with his wife, often sat at our table, diagnosed a touch of bronchitis and said she should stay in bed. She must get rid of the cough, which was becoming persistent.

  "Stay in bed until the cough goes," was his advice. "And above all keep warm." He looked at the fire that Ellen had hghted and nodded with approval.

  Aunt Martha said: "Her trouble is that she won't make an effort. Give her the footlights and she'd be dancing for joy and forgetting all about illness."

  There was something in that; but she would have had to recover from bronchitis first.

  The next morning a letter arrived from my father, and Aunt Martha solemnly called me to the drawing room to hear about it.

  "It is most disappointing," she said. "He will not come home.

  It would have been most satisfactory if he had. Then there might have been a reconciliation."

  "Oh, Aunt Martha, it is too long. You can't have a reconciliation after fifteen years, just because it would be convenient."

  "I am sure it could have been arranged," said Aunt Martha, implying that with her all things were possible. "If only we could get him to come home!"

  "It wouldn't make any difference to them if he did," I said.

  Aunt Martha's lips were pressed firmly together. It must be galling for her, I thought, to know exactly what should be done and to be foiled in her attempts. And the fact, because it was chiefly about two strings of pearls, made me want to laugh at the absurdity to which people's pride would lead them.

  "He expresses great pleasure that you are here under our care," she went on. "I told him that at least he should come home and see you."

  "He really said he was pleased I was here?"

  "Oh yes. He knows you will be properly looked after. He has written to you. In fact I have the letter here."

  I seized it eagerly. I could not wait to read it yet I did not want to do so under Aunt Martha's eyes. The thought occurred to me that she might have steamed open the envelope and read it since it had not been given to me immediately. But I was not sure. Some people regard honor as a quality that should be adhered to most rigidly; but for people of strong purpose the code could be bent a little to suit their purpose. I was beginning to have strange thoughts about Aunt Martha. My mother's dislike of her, almost amounting to a fear, must have put them into my head.

  At last I escaped and took the letter to my room. My hands were trembling as I opened it. It was written in a large, rather sprawhng hand, not always easy to read.

  My dear daughter Sarah,

  It is a great pleasure to write to you at last. I doubt that you remember me. I remember you vividly. I was heartbroken when your mother took you away. These things will happen, however, and as she could not settle to the life out here, perhaps she was right to leave it. I have leamed from my sisters that you are now with them—your mother also. I am sure you will be happy at

  Ashington Grange. After all it is the family home. I plant tea out here. It is a job which demands constant attention. That is why I am tied here. Your aunts want me to return but that is impossible just now. Perhaps one day you will come and pay me a visit. In the meantime I should like to hear from you, Sarah. Write to me and let me know that you have some interest in your father.

  Ralph Ashington

  I was excited. I was no longer without a father. I would write to him and we should know each other through our letters. I could ask about my sister.

  As I sat there with the letter in my hand there was a knock on the door and Aunt Martha came in. Her sharp eyes studied me intently.

&nbs
p; "Well?" she said.

  I felt the color flame into my cheeks. I was not going to show her my father's letter. In any case the suspicion that she had already read it persisted.

  "So he has written to you at last," she said. "He could have done so before."

  "It's a friendly letter."

  She laughed on a high note of derision. "One would expect a father to be friendly toward his daughter. He should come home. I have told him he should often."

  "He has the plantation."

  "He should be leading a normal life."

  "Aunt Martha, I'm worried about my mother."

  "I think you should not worry too much. Your mother is a woman who enjoys her ill health."

  "I don't think that is so. You should have seen her when she was working. She was always so high-spirited. The last thing she wanted was to be ill."

  "That's what I imply. There, attention was focused on her. Here she has to try and attract attention so she does it by having everyone dance attendance on her."

  "She coughs a great deal."

  "Fresh air would do her good. It's intolerable that Ralph will not come home."

  With her lips tightly pressed together I thought she looked like

  one of the strong women of the past. Boadicea riding against the Romans, Ehzabeth at Tilbury, the sort of woman who says "It shall be!" and makes sure it is.

  "Perhaps he will one day."

  She shook her head. "I know him well. I read something in his letters. He does, not want to come back. It would be too complicated. He would meet your mother and have to come to some decision. Your father always hated making decisions. He was always a drifter." She looked angry. "Everything drifts along until it is too late."

  "Too late for what, Aunt?" I asked.

  She did not answer but shook her head impatiently.

  "I do believe my mother is more ill than we realize," I said earnestly. "I have seen a great change in her."

  Then she said a strange thing which later I saw as an indication of the way in which her mind was working. "Creaking doors go on creaking for a long time," she said.

  It occurred to me then that she was thinking that if my mother died, my father could remarry and perhaps have a son.

  I thrust the thought from my mind as soon as it came. I could not bear to think of my mother. . . dead.

  At dinner that evening—the aunts, Celia and myself—we talked of the weather, which showed little sign of improving, and the effect it was having on everything; we talked of the new curate who was coming to help the vicar, the thought of which made Aunt Martha's nose twitch with amusement.

  "I daresay the Cannon girls are all agog," she commented. "Who knows, one of them might succeed in capturing him. A curate. Not much of a catch. But what can they hope for, poor things."

  "It will be interesting to see the contest," put in Mabel.

  Celia was silent, her eyes cast down. I wondered if she had ever thought of marrying and what her reaction would be if she had the opportunity of doing so.

  She spoke frankly about herself now and then. I had heard of the house in the country—a manor house rather like the Grange; the father who had had an accident on the hunting field, I gath-

  ered; the mother who had died soon after; the cousin who had inherited the estate and of whom she spoke httle, presumably because it was a painful subject. Then there was the governess who had brought her to London to see my mother in one of her plays. She did speak affectionately of the governess, who seemed to have been her greatest friend. One could not probe too deeply, so I had to wait for her to tell me these things.

  Aunt Martha said suddenly: "And how is our invalid?" During the last days she had begun to refer to my mother as "our invalid."

  "She is a little better," I replied.

  ''Not well enough to join us for dinner obviously," said Mabel.

  "Oh no. She is still weak. This bout has taken it out of her considerably."

  "Let a glass of my elderbern' wine be sent up with her tray," said Aunt Martha. "Who takes the tray?"

  "I shall," said Celia. "Unless you want to, Sarah?"

  "She likes you to take it and chat with her about the theater while she eats," I replied.

  "The wine was very good this year, Martha," said Mabel. "More potent than usual. It makes me feel quite sleepy."

  "It will do our invalid good," said Aunt Martha.

  Celia took the tray to my mother and I went in while she was eating and we all talked together. I had not told her yet that I had heard from my father because I felt it might upset her.

  She was soon sleeping so we took the tray away and left her.

  In the morning she was not so well. Her cough had worsened and she had a slight fever. The doctor came and said we must be sure to keep her warm. Let her be propped up with pillows; that would help her breathing. He prescribed some cough mixture which Celia went to collect and during the afternoon she had clearly improved. She dozed a great deal during the afternoon, but the next morning she had weakened considerably and the fever had increased.

  Celia was clearly worried and thought we ought not to leave her too long, so we took turns to be with her.

  When I was alone with her she suddenly opened her eyes and looked at me in a rather hazy fashion.

  "Is that you, Siddons?" she said. "I'm frightened."

  "It's all right," I soothed. "I'm here. There's nothing to be frightened of."

  "There is something . . . someone. . . . It's in the night. It was there ... I saw it. It wasn't . . . natural. I opened my eyes. ... It Was not quite dark. There was a little moonlight. ... I saw it. It was by the bed. It was watching me ... a gray-clad figure. Then it moved away . . . faded away. I was cold ... so cold. . . ."

  "It was a dream," I said.

  She nodded. "Yes, a dream. It was lilce that scene in The Specter of the East Wing. Do you remember, Siddons? I played the lady of the house and the specter was really someone who was planning to murder me."

  I smoothed her hair back from her brow. "You were just dreaming of the past," I said. "There are no specters here. I am not far away and Celia is just along the conidor."

  "Celia is a good girl," she murmured. "Yes, I'm glad she's near. Siddons, I don't like Martha. I'm afraid of her. I've got a feeling she wants me out of the way."

  "You're getting fanciful again. Celia's going to bring you some nice gruel and one of us will stay and sit with you. All you have to do is rest and keep warm and you'll be well in no time at all."

  She took her gruel and was soon asleep. The doctor came in the morning and I told him about the dream or whatever it was.

  "It's a result of her fever," he said. "Her temperature's far too high. Keep her warm and with some good nourishment she'll be herself in a week or so. She's had too many of these colds and this is a particularly bad one."

  Celia went to get new medicine for her that afternoon and when she came back she told us that the doctor had said my mother should have a dose last thing at night because it would help her to sleep and what she needed more than anything was restful sleep.

  I was very uneasy about her. There was a change in her—a certain wildness in her eyes ... a fear. She was afraid. That hallucination of the gray-clad figure in her room might be something from her imagination, but it was something put there by fear.

  There had been talk about ghosts as there usually was in ancient houses and this must have lodged itself in her mind and come out in this form. But there was real fear somewhere. When I thought of the gay creature she had once been I was very depressed and anxious.

  I could not sleep that night. I wished my room were in her corridor. Celia was there, of course, and had promised to keep an eye on her. That was a comfort. I promised myself that if she did not get any better I would sleep in her room.

  So I lay awake. The moonlight was enough to show me the outline of the furniture in my room and being sleepless I began to think about the past and the excitement of the theatrical life, of Toby's
taking me to the Cafe Royal for lunch and meeting my mother there with one of her countless adorers. How different she had looked then from the poor depressed woman in the bed upstairs. Who would have believed anyone could change so much. Change everywhere! Everard, suave, masterful, handsome Everard dead by his own hand. My mother, the beautiful sought-after actress, a frightened woman dependent upon her husband's relatives. Cruel change! And for me change too. Here I was living in the house of my ancestors, and my father had become a real person through a letter and we were going to write and get to know each other. Perhaps one day I should see him. He would come here or I would go to his tea plantation. . . .

  A sudden sound from above! Was it? Or had I imagined it? Boards creaked alarmingly in old houses. I sat up in bed listening. Silence. I could hear my own heart beating. Go to sleep, I told myself scornfully. Your imagination is overworking again.

  I lay still hstening. A sound, yes, an indefinable sound . . . and up there my mother was sleeping.

  I got out of bed and put on my slippers and dressing gown. I opened my door and listened. Could that really be the sound of stealthy steps?

  I looked at the clock by the bedside. I could just make out the time. Half past two. I must have dozed and not realized it

  I closed my door quietly and went swiftly upstairs. I had not brought a candle with me but there was just enough light to show me the way and I knew it well.

  Footsteps in the Dark loi

  I came to the corridor and as I did so I thought I saw the schoolroom door close. The schoolroom door! I remember how Ellen had dropped the vase of flowers. The servants were almost as much afraid of the schoolroom as the gallery.

  I went quickly to my mother's room and as I opened the door a blast of cold air struck me so forcibly in the face that I gasped. The lattice window was wide open and the wind cut into me like a knife; the fire was completely out and there was a telltale trickle of water on the hearth.