Bride of Pendorric Read online

  He was momentarily sad and I fancied that he looked a little more tired than when I had last seen him.

  “Yes, I think there’s a lot in that,” I said.

  “There you were, with your mother and father in that island … perfectly happy, and I don’t suppose you owned the house you lived in, let alone the ground all around and a private beach.”

  “It’s true. We were very poor and very happy.”

  He frowned and I wondered if I had been tactless. He went on rather brusquely: “Nurse Grey goes down to the beach a great deal. Do you use yours much?”

  “Not so far. But I shall, of course. I’ve hardly settled in yet.”

  “I’m taking up too much of your time.”

  “But I like coming and I enjoy playing chess.”

  He was silent for a while and then again he led me back to the subject of my life on the island.

  I was surprised that he could be such a good listener, but while I talked he remained attentive and fired so many questions at me in his rather brusque manner that I went on talking about myself.

  When the tea had been cleared away I drew up the exquisite little table on which we played; it was a dainty piece, of French origin, with inlaid ivory and tortoise-shell squares; I put out the ivory chessmen, which were as beautiful as the table, and the game began.

  When we had been playing for about fifteen minutes, to my surprise I had him at a disadvantage. I was delightedly pursuing my strategy when, looking up, I saw that he was in considerable discomfort.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Please forgive me.” He was groping in his pocket.

  “You’ve lost something?”

  “A little silver box. I always keep it near me.”

  I stood up and, looking about me, saw a small silver box on the floor at his feet. I picked it up and gave it to him. His relief was apparent as he quickly opened it and took a small white tablet from it. This he placed under his tongue. For some seconds he sat back gripping his chair.

  I was alarmed because I knew that he was ill, and I got up, going to the bell to call the manservant, but seeing what I was about to do, Lord Polhorgan shook his head. I stood uncertainly. “Better in a minute,” he muttered.

  “But you’re ill. Shouldn’t I … ?”

  He continued to shake his head while I stood helplessly by. In about five minutes he began to look a little better and it was as though a tension had been eased.

  He drew a deep breath and murmured: “Better now. I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t be so sorry. Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Just sit down … quietly. In a few minutes I’ll be all right.”

  I obeyed, watching him anxiously. The gilded French clock over the ornate fireplace ticked loudly, and apart from that there was silence in the room. From far away I could hear the gentle swishing of the waves against the rocks.

  A few more minutes passed and he gave a deep sigh. Then he smiled at me. “I’m sorry that happened while you were here. Mislaid my tablets. Don’t usually stir without them. They must have dropped out of my pocket.”

  “Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who is sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing much anyone can do. If I’d had my box I’d have slipped a tablet into my mouth while you were busy over the game and you wouldn’t have noticed anything. As it was … I delayed a little too long.”

  “I’m glad I found them.”

  “You look sad. Shouldn’t, you know. I’m an old man. And one of the disadvantages of being old is that one is too old to deal with the disadvantages. But I’ve had my day. Besides, there’s a lot of life in me yet. Don’t like mislaying my tablets though. Could be dangerous.”

  “What wonderful tablets they must be!”

  “Not always effective. They are ninety-nine times out of a hundred though. T.N.T. Expand the veins and arteries.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then it’s a dose of morphia.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  He patted my hand. “The old engine’s creaking,” he said. “I need decarbonizing. Pity I can’t ask you to run me into old Jim Bond’s and have it done, eh?”

  “Shouldn’t you rest now?”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll phone my doctor and ask him to come in and see me. Haven’t been feeling so well this last day or so.”

  “Shouldn’t we phone at once?”

  “Nurse Grey will do it when she comes in. Can’t imagine how those tablets came to be on the floor.”

  “Perhaps there’s a hole in your pocket.”

  He felt, and shook his head.

  “You know, I think you ought to rest. Shall I go now? Or better still, telephone the doctor?”

  “All right then. His number’s in the little book by the telephone. Dr. Clement.”

  I went at once to the book and dialed the number. I was fortunate, for Dr. Clement happened to be in. I told him that I was speaking from Polhorgan and that Lord Polhorgan wanted him to look in soon.

  “Right,” said Dr. Clement. “I’ll be along.”

  I replaced the receiver and went back to the table. “Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

  “Yes, sit down and finish the game. I’m afraid I let you get the better of me, I was thinking about my silver box. Just to show you how quickly I can recover we’ll continue the game and I’ll beat you yet.”

  I kept taking uneasy glances at him as we played, which made him chuckle, and before we had finished the game, Dr. Clement arrived.

  I rose to go but Lord Polhorgan wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I’m all right now,” he said. “I only let Mrs. Pendorric call you because she was anxious about me. Tell her there’s nothing to be done for me. The trouble was, Doctor, I’d mislaid my T.N.T.s and it was some minutes before Mrs. Pendorric found them.”

  “You should always keep them within reach,” said Dr. Clement.

  “I know. I know. Can’t think what happened. Must have pulled them out of my pocket. Have some tea. Perhaps Mrs. Pendorric would ring for Dawson. That’s cold by now.”

  The doctor declined the tea and I said I really should go. I was certain that he would want to be alone with his patient.

  “The game’s unfinished,” protested Lord Polhorgan.

  “We can finish it next time.”

  “I’ve frightened you away,” said Dr. Clement almost wistfully.

  I was determined to go, and I left. As I came through the portico I glanced at my watch and saw that I was half an hour earlier than I had intended to be, so instead of making my way to the road, or the path which led to the short cut Rachel and the twins had shown me that afternoon, I thought I would like to go down to the beach by way of the cliff garden and scramble over the rocks to Pendorric Cove, and through our own garden up to the house.

  The tide was out so it would be possible. I walked around to the side of the house and saw one of the Polhorgan gardeners emerging from a greenhouse. I asked him how I could get to the beach from the garden and he offered to show me the way.

  He led me along a path bounded on each side by a box hedge; at the end of this path was a small gate, and passing through this I was in the cliff garden. It was a wonderful sight, for in this semitropical climate plants grew in profusion. There was a palm tree in a sheltered alcove, which reminded me of those in the quadrangle; and the hydrangea blooms were even bigger than those at Pendorric; they flaunted their brilliant blues and pinks, whites and multi-colors. There seemed to be hundreds of fuchsias with larger flowers than I had seen before; and great white Arum lilies which filled the air with their slightly funereal scent.

  The path I had taken wound in zigzag fashion towards the sea to eliminate the strain of walking down such a steep slope; first I faced east, then west, then turned again as I went past borders of flowers whose names I did not know, past seats which had been set under arches and in alcoves the trellis work of which was ablaze with Paul’s Scarlet, A
merican Pillar, and Golden Dawn roses.

  I thought that if the sun were shining and the sea blue it would be almost too dazzling. But today was a gray day and the cry of the gulls seemed melancholy as they swooped and soared.

  I came at length to the little gate which opened onto the beach and, as I stood in Polhorgan Cove, I looked back at that wonderful garden set out on the cliff side to the stone walls of Polhorgan’s Folly looming above.

  Not such a folly, I thought. A lovely house in a lovely spot. The tide was well out. I knew that at high tide it came up almost as far as the gates of Pendorric garden and I imagined those of Polhorgan too. It was only when the tide was really out that one could walk along the beach. Even as far as I could see the place was deserted. Ahead of me the rocks jutted out almost to the water, shutting me in the little bay which was known as Polhorgan Cove. I guessed it would take me longer to reach Pendorric this way than by the road so I started westward immediately. It was not easy rounding the jagged rocks; there were so many to be climbed, and interesting little pools to be leaped over. I came to a large rock which actually did jut into the sea. It was rather difficult getting over that one, but I managed it; and then I saw our own beach, our garden, far less grand than that of Polhorgan, but perhaps as beautiful in its wild state.

  I leaped onto the soft sand and as I did so I heard the sound of laughter.

  Then I saw them. She was half lying on the sand, her face propped up by her hands, and he was stretched out beside her, leaning on one elbow. He looked as dark as he had when I had first seen him sitting in the studio with my father.

  They were talking animatedly, and I thought uneasily; they wouldn’t have expected to see me here suddenly.

  I wanted them to know quickly that I was close-by. Perhaps I was afraid that if I did not make my presence known I might hear or see something which I did not want to. I called out: “Hello.”

  Roc sprang to his feet and for a few seconds stared at me; then be came running towards me, taking both my hands in his.

  “Look who’s here! I thought you were still at the Folly.”

  “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  He put his arm round me and laughed. “In the most pleasant way,” he said.

  We walked over to Althea Grey, who remained where she was on the sand. Her blue eyes, fixed on me, seemed shrewd and alert.

  “Is everything all right at Polhorgan?” she asked.

  I told her what had happened, and she got up.

  “I’d better get back,” she said.

  “Come up to Pendorric,” said Roc, “and I’ll drive you there.”

  She looked up the steep garden to the gray walls of Pendorric and shook her head. “I don’t think it would be any quicker. I’ll go over the rocks.” She turned to me. “I’ve done it so often, I’m becoming like a mountain goat. See you later,” she added, and started to hurry across the sand.

  “You look shaken,” said Roc. “I believe the old man often has those attacks. He’s been having them for years. Pity it happened when you were alone with him.”

  We opened the gate and started the climb through the garden to the house.

  “What made you come the beach way?” asked Roc.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps because it was a way I hadn’t been before and as I was leaving a little early I thought I’d try it. Is Althea Grey a friend of … the family?”

  “Not of the family.”

  “Only of you?”

  “You know what a friendly type I am!”

  He caught me to him and hugged me. Questions were on my lips but I hesitated. I didn’t want him to think I was going to be foolishly jealous every time he spoke to another woman. I had to remember I had married a Pendorric and they were noted for their gallantries.

  “Do you often meet on the beach?”

  “This is a small place. One is always running up against neighbors.”

  “I wonder why she preferred our beach to Polhorgan.”

  “Ah, from Pendorric beach you can look up at real antiquity; from Polhorgan you only get the fake.”

  “It’s a very beautiful fake.”

  “I believe you’re getting very fond of his lordship.” He regarded me ironically: “Ought I to be jealous?”

  I laughed, but I felt almost as uneasy as I had when I had come into the cove and seen them lying there together. Was he trying to turn the tables, as guilty people often did? Was he saying: You spend your afternoon with Lord Polhorgan, so why shouldn’t I spend mine with his nurse?

  It was an incongruous suggestion, but he went on: “I should be very jealous, so you mustn’t provoke me.”

  “I hope you will remember to do unto others as you would they should do unto you.”

  “But you would never be jealous without reason. You’re far too sensible.”

  “Yet I suppose it would be more reasonable to be jealous of a beautiful young woman than a sick old man.”

  “Often in these matters there are other factors to be considered besides personal charms.”

  “Such as?”

  “You don’t find millionaires lurking on every rock and patch of sand.”

  “What a hideous suggestion!”

  “Isn’t it? And I’m a beast to mention such mundane matters as money; but then, as you once said, I am a satyr, which is a form of beast, I suppose. Actually I fancied you were not very pleased to come upon Thea and me together and I wanted to tell you how ridiculous you were to be … not very pleased.”

  “You’re not hinting that you’d rather I didn’t visit Lord Polhorgan?”

  “Good heavens, no! I’m delighted that you do. Poor old man, he’s only just beginning to realize that his millions can’t buy him all he wants. He’s getting more pleasure out of having a beautiful young woman to pour his tea and hover over his ivory chessmen than he’s had for years. And all without paying out a penny! It’s a revelation to him. It reminds me of Little Lord Fauntleroy, the terror of my youth because I was forced to read of his adventures by a well-meaning nurse. I found him particularly nauseating—perhaps because he was the opposite of myself. I could never see myself in plum-colored velvet with my golden curls falling over my lace collar, going to soften the hard heart of dear old Lord Somebody, Fauntleroy, I believe … old Fauntleroy. That was one thing I could never do—bring warring relations together by my childish charm.”

  “Stop it, Roc. Do you really object to my visits to Polhorgan?”

  He picked one of the Mrs. Simkins pinks that grew in rather untidy clumps, filling the air with their delicious scent, and gravely put it into the buttonhole of my short linen jacket.

  “I’ve been talking a lot of nonsense because I’m garrulous by nature. Darling, I want you to feel absolutely free. As for visiting Lord Polhorgan, don’t for heaven’s sake stop. I’m glad you’re able to give him so much pleasure. I know he ruined our east view with his monstrosity, but he’s an old man and he’s sick. Go as often as he asks you.”

  He leaned forward to smell the pink; then he kissed my lips. He took my hand and we climbed to the house.

  As usual he had the power to make me accept what he wanted to; it was only when I was alone that I asked myself: Does he want me to visit Lord Polhorgan so that Althea Grey is free to be with him?

  I went down to the kitchen one morning to find Mrs. Penhalligan at the table kneading dough, and there was the delicious smell of baking bread in the air.

  The kitchens at Pendorric were enormous and, in spite of electric cookers, refrigerators, and other recently installed modern equipment, looked as though they belonged to another age. There were several rooms—a bakehouse, a buttery, a washhouse, and another room called the dairy, which had a floor of blue tiles and had once been a storeroom for milk, butter, eggs, and such. Across the ceiling were great oak beams supplied with hooks on which joints of meat, hams, sides of bacon, and Christmas puddings had once hung.

  The kitchen itself, though large, was a cozy room with its red tiled floor and dre
ssers, its refectory table at which generations of servants had had their meals, and the wooden one scrubbed white, at which, on this occasion, Mrs. Penhalligan was working. Through an open door I could see Maria preparing vegetables in the washhouse.

  Mrs. Penhalligan bridled with pleasure when she saw me.

  I said: “Good morning, Mrs. Penhalligan. I thought it was about time I paid a visit to the kitchens.”

  “It’s good to see you, m’am,” she answered.

  “Is that bread baking? It smells delicious.”

  She looked very pleased. “We’ve always baked our own bread at Pendorric. There’s nothing like the homebaked, I always say. I bake for Father at the same time. It’s always been understood.”

  “How is your father?”

  “Oh, fair to middling, m’am. Don’t get no younger, but he be wonderful for his age. He’ll be ninety next Candlemas.”

  “Ninety! That’s a great age.”

  “And there bain’t much wrong with him …’cept of course his great affliction.”

  “Oh?”

  “You didn’t know, m’am, and I reckon none as yet thought fit to tell you. Father went blind … oh—it’ll be nigh on thirty years ago. No. I bain’t telling you the truth. It’ll be twenty-eight years. It started … twenty-eight years come harvest time.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t ’ee be. Father bain’t sorry for himself. He’s happy enough … with his pipe and all he wants to eat. He likes to sit at the door on sunny days and it ’ud astonish you, m’am, how good his hearing is. Sort of makes up for not having his sight, so it seems.”

  “I expect I’ll see him sometime.”

  “He’d be real pleased if you stopped and had a little chat with him. He’s always asking about Mr. Roc’s new bride.”

  “I’ll look for him.”

  “You can’t make no mistake. It’s the second of the cottages down Pendorric Village. Lives all alone there. Independent since mother went. But Maria and me, we’re always in and out. And we pop over with a plate of hot something for his dinner regular as clockwork. He don’t pay no rent, and he’s got his bit of pension. Father’s all right. He’d be wonderful … if he had his sight.”