The Spring of the Tiger

by Victoria Holt

I was standing by the voluminous red curtains when I heard footsteps coming upstairs and along the corridor. I suppose it was because I had been thinking of Margaret that my heart started to hammer against my bodice. It was a strange feeling. The footsteps were slow, laborious, almost as though whoever was making them was finding difficulty in walking. I stared at the door. The handle moved. The door flew open and no one came in. Instinctively I shrank against the curtains. Then I was laughing at myself. Ellen, one of the maids, had entered, and she had walked so slowly because she was carrying a big brown bowl in which chrysanthemums had been ananged. It must have been heavy because it was earthenware.

  As she staggered to the table I moved out into the room. She turned with a scream and the bowl fell from her hands. Her face was white, her eyes round with horror.

  "Ellen!" I cried. "What's the matter?"

  She continued to stare at me and as she recognized me the color returned to her face, which became scarlet. "I thought. . ." she stammered. "Oh, my patience me, I thought you was the ghost. Miss Sarah."

  I laughed but reminded myself that a few moments before I had been shrinking uneasily into the curtains.

  "Cook says she might come in here . . . because he first saw her in the schoolroom ... so cook says. I dunno. Miss Sarah, but you could have been her. You've got a look of her, cook says so. . . ."

  "That's not surprising," I said. "If you are referring to Miss Margaret, she was my aunt. Come on, Ellen, we'd better clear this up."

  "There'll be trouble, miss. Look. I've broke the big brown bowl."

  "I'll tell them it was my fault."

  "Oh, would you, miss? It was you that sort of startled me."

  I laid my hand on her shoulder. She was still trembling.

  "I never like coming in here alone," she confessed. "And it's a funny afternoon . . . sort of dark so it seems like there's a storm blowing up. I'd rather come here than go to the gallery though . . . but I don't like coming here much either."

  "Run and get an ashpan," I said. "And something to mop up the water. Bring a vase and we'll put the flowers in it. I suppose they're to make it look cheerful for the new governess."

  "Mistress said to put them there. The new governess, she says, is a real lady. A lot of them governesses are, miss. Come down in the world, that's them."

  "That's right. Now get what I told you and in a short time we'll have everything cleared up and ready for this lady."

  She went off cheered because I wasn't a ghost and was going to take the blame for the broken bowl.

  As I waited for her I thought how strange it was that the memory of Margaret lingered on after all these years. It was almost as though there was a mystery about her death.

  Soon Ellen was back. She cleared up the mess while I arranged the flowers. I set them in the middle of the table.

  "There," I said. "Doesn't that look more cheerful?"

  She looked around the room. I could see that to her it was a haunted room. No amount of flowers could change that.

  Celia Hansen was obviously eager to please. Sometimes, so perfectly did she behave that I thought she must have rehearsed what she said and did. She was determined not to upset the servants and managed to be pleasant without being familiar, which was not always easy. A governess' position in a household could be a very difficult one, she pointed out to me later. One was not of the servant class; on the other hand by nature of one's employment one could not expect to be treated as a member of the family. She need not have worried. Aunt Martha had clearly taken to her. She had had the idea of employing a governess and she had chosen Celia Hansen. Therefore the coming of Celia into the household must be a good thing. There was a great deal to be said for such a philosophy. She could scarcely have applied that judgment to her action in bringing Edward Sanderton into the house. But that was far in the past and Aunt Martha was not one to dwell on failures. Mabel, of course, agreed that Celia was an asset to the household; she solved the problem of my education and was quite self-effacing and grateful—in fact everything that was admirable in the circumstances.

  What surprised me most was Celia's friendship v'ath my mother. There was no doubt that they took to each other. Celia proved to be quite knowledgeable about the theater and told my mother that on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion she had gone to the theater where my mother was playing.

  Celia could describe the play in detail and my mother's part in it. My mother was rapturous. I had not seen her so happy for a long time.

  I was the one who perhaps held aloof. I felt mildly resentful about having a governess at my age. Perhaps I remembered those erratic lessons with Toby which, looking back, I realized had been such a joy. Being governessed by Celia Hansen held none of the excitement of those other lessons.

  We were a little wary of each other. She must have been over thirty, which seemed to me quite old. Sometimes I thought she looked older—sometimes younger. She was so different from my-

  self. I was impulsive. I had the impression that Celia weighed her words very carefully before she uttered them and that she watched the effect they had on people. I fancied her personality changed a little according to the people she was with. With the aunts she was a model of decorum; she showed just enough gratitude to let them know that she never forgot how glad she was to be in their house, but she never obscured the fact that she had been brought up as they had themselves. Nothing could have delighted Aunt Martha more. I probed the servants to find out what they thought of her. "A lady ... oh, a lady," said Ellen. "She don't make no nuisance of herself. Cook says some of them governesses give themselves airs. Well, Miss Hansen's got airs in a way . . . but natural ones, if you know what I mean. Oh, they like her all right."

  So she was a success. I wished she would be a little less restrained. I wished she would not come so quietly into the room; I was not always aware that she was there until I looked up and saw her. Those strange saucer eyes of hers disconcerted me too. There was a certain blankness about them, so that it was impossible to fathom what lay behind them. They never seemed to smile. They matched her manners in a way. Then I learned that she was afraid of me, and after that I felt differently toward her.

  We were in the schoolroom reading Hamlet together. She had worked out some sort of curriculum, for she was very conscientious. She was to teach me mathematics, French and English grammar and we studied English literature. There was also needlework and what was called Art, which consisted of painting in water colors—usually a vase of flowers or a bowl of fruit. She was an excellent needlewoman and painted far better than I could. She was strong in mathematics and could quickly solve those problems about trains traveling in opposite directions and how old children were when their aggregate age was so much and one was so many years older than the other and so on. I had always hated such problems as I could never care about the speed of trains nor the ages of nonexistent children. But as far as English and French were concerned in any form—particularly literature—I should have been more able to teach her than she was me.

  This soon became obvious and it was particularly so when we

  were studying Hamlet. I had always loved it. I knew lines off by heart. Toby and I had discussed it at length.

  I found myself getting more and more involved in discussion with Celia and it was clear that she was getting completely out of her depth. Her hands were l>ing on the table, and I noticed that they were trembling. She hid them in her lap. She seemed to come to a decision.

  "I'm not qualified to teach you," she said. "I've only had a very ordinary education. I might teach young children . . ." The saucer eyes looked straight into mine unblinkingly but the lips were quivering. She was clearly frightened.

  She went on: "I thought I was fortunate. Everything seemed to be working out so well. Your aunts were so kind to me and I was so proud to meet your mother. But I can see that you consider I am not fit to teach you. You will speak to your aunts and then . . ."

  I was silent for a moment. I was so disturbed by the
sudden breakdown of that calm fagade. This quiet, restrained, poised lady was really a frightened woman who saw a bleak future before her. Those large eyes surveyed me, as expressionless as ever.

  "Can you imagine the position I find myself in," she went on. "I have been brought up in a house . . . like this one. I never thought my life would change so much. It was all so sudden. When my parents died I had to meet all the debts, which thankfully I did, though it left me penniless. It seemed this was the only thing I could do. I saw the advertisement. I answered it and your aunts were so kind, and so was everyone here. I thought it was a respite, and I could have a few years here and perhaps plan something for the future. But I am not really qualified to teach. I shall have to try to find something else . . . some place where there are children. I should perhaps be good enough for that. It seems that I have come here under false pretenses."

  "Wait a minute," I cried. "You're taking too much for granted. Who said I was going to tell Aunt Martha that you were not qualified to teach me French and English? I didn't. You assumed that. It's true I've always felt I was too old to have a governess . . ."

  "I know that and you resent my presence here for that reason."

  "I don't resent you personally. Only the idea that I am a child who must have a governess. I can understand how you feel. In fact it could so easily have happened to me. If the aunts had not come along and brought us here I should probably be in some house trying to earn a living. So I understand how you feel. You are good with figures and far far better at needlework and sketching. I don't see why you shouldn't teach me these things. As for French, we'll do a bit of that together and I always enjoy discussing literature with anyone. So I don't see why we shouldn't do our lessons quite well together. Cheer up, Miss Hansen. There's no need for you to worry. Stay here until you've decided what you can do. Aunt Martha approves of you and I can tell you that to win the approval of such a lady is a feat of extraordinary magnitude."

  The lips were smiling at me; her eyes seemed to have become more luminous, but their expression did not alter.

  From then on we became friends. She was grateful to me for not betraying her and I felt a glow of self-righteousness. I began to like her as one does people for whom one has done a good turn.

  So we settled down very comfortably and within a month Ceha had become like a member of the family.

  Aunt Martha decreed that Celia should have her meals with us for it was absurd for her to have hers on a tray in her room and she could hardly go to the servants' hall. We began to call her by her Christian name and she went to church with us. The Cannon girls persuaded her to join in ecclesiastical activities and she was quite an asset. She embroidered a tray cloth and made a few tea cosies for the sale of work and was very helpful dispensing tea from the great urn at one penny per cup.

  I was aware on occasion of a certain uneasiness in the house and when this occurred I used to go to the gallery and look at the picture of Margaret and at those ladies who wore the pearls about their necks.

  I wondered what was happening to the Ashington Pearls now. They were in my father's possession, I supposed. They passed to the son of the family and through him to his wife and then to the wife of the eldest son. But what if there was no son? I wanted to

  ask what was happening to the pearls now. Perhaps Mabel would be the one to tell me.

  What was it that was worrying me? Aunt Martha perhaps. There was something purposeful about her, as though she were planning something. Then there was my mother. She was still waiting for the day when Tom Mellor would arrive with the play that was going to put her at the top of her profession again. The coming of Celia had had its effect on her. Sometimes I thought that was good, and at others I was not quite so sure. Celia talked a great deal to my mother. They used to have tea in my mother's room. She had a spirit lamp which she had used in the theater, for she had always liked a cup of tea at odd times. Meg used to complain about it. "Tea! Tea! In the middle of the night she'll get a craving for a cup of tea." I remembered that spirit lamp well.

  Sometimes I joined them. I had seen my mother quite animated, telling Celia about her various parts and often acting some of them for her benefit. It was good to see her enjoying herself, but afterward she would descend to depression which would be the greater for the momentary excitement.

  I wondered whether Celia had heard of my mother's involvement with Everard Herringford and the subsequent tragedy. There was no doubt that she knew a great deal about my mother's theatrical past. I tackled her on this one day when we were walking in the forest.

  I began by saying that my mother was delighted that she was so interested in the theater. I said tentatively: "Did you hear about her last play?"

  "The one which ran for such a short time?"

  So she did know.

  "It was such a pity," she said. "I hate to think of her here . . . wasting all that talent."

  "It was rather difficult for her ..." I began.

  She had walked a little ahead of me. She seemed nervous. Then she turned to me and said: "I read about it in the papers . . . about the man who killed himself . . . that pohtician. It was awful for her. I was so sorry for her."

  "So you did know."

  "Very little. It was mentioned in our local paper and having

  seen her on stage, I remembered. Is it true that whatever happened ruined her career?"

  "Yes," I said, "it did."

  "How tragic!"

  "You must have been very surprised when you came here and found that she was here. Or did you remember the name . . . ?"

  "The name?" She expressed surprise with a movement of her lips. "Oh . . . Ashington. I don't think I heard that name before. She was always called Irene Rushton, wasn't she? No, I never heard of Ashington so it was a great surprise to find her here. I could not believe it at first."

  "You're good for her," I said. "She had so much adulation . . . and to find one of her admirers here is wonderful for her."

  "I like to talk to her of the theater. It interests me."

  I had been right when I thought Aunt Martha was planning something. I learned what it was from my mother. It was the end of November, quite warm but damp and misty and my mother had one of her colds. They were becoming more and more frequent.

  She stayed in bed one day and I went to her room to make tea on the spirit lamp. Celia was at the church discussing the children's Christmas party which would take place on the twentieth of the next month but which entailed weeks of preparation.

  My mother was in one of her moods of depression. "I hate tiiis house more every day," she said as I handed her her tea.

  I sat down beside the bed and sipped my own. There was nothing unusual in that comment. I had heard it a hundred times before.

  "Martha's planning something," she went on. "I tell you, Sid-dons, she really does give me the creeps."

  "You have said so before."

  "I remember when I came here with your father. She was always wondering whether I was pregnant. If you had been a boy all would have been well. You would get their wretched pearls and a wife to wear them. They'd be marrying you off already. Then watching to see when the boy was coming along. But your father let them down. He betrayed the family. Two unsatisfactory mar-

  riages and not an Ashington boy from one of them. Martha's a woman with an obsession. Who is going to get those pearls? The way things are going it won't be someone named Ashington. It's like a comedy. But Martha doesn't fit into comedy." My mother handed me her cup and when I had put it down and returned to her bedside she gripped my hand. "Something's brewing, Sid-dons. She has plans."

  "What sort of plans?"

  "They concern me. I know it. I see her eyes fixed on me. She's planning to get your father and me together somehow. Either he's got to come home or I've got to go out there. She's got to get us together so that we can do what she discreetly called 'our duty.* We've got to get a son so that he can inherit the pearls. How is she going to do it?"

  "Perha
ps my father will come home." I was excited at the thought. To have been brought here and introduced to a family (although mostly in a portrait gallery) had excited and stimulated me. I longed more than anything to see my father.

  "He would never be governed by his sisters. He won't come. He hasn't been back all these years. Why should he come now? I think she will realize she can't get him back and she's now trying to ship me out there. That's her plan. She wants to get rid of me."

  "Would you . . . go?"

  "I hated the place. I hated it more than I hate this. At least here I'm not so far from London and Tom knows where to find me."

  I felt sick with pity. Was she still hoping Tom Mellor would come along with that play! She had grown thin . . . unnaturally so, and I knew that the pearly glow of her skin, which had been so appealing when natural, was now acquired painstakingly and fell short of its previous perfection.

  "Has she suggested you go?" I asked.

  "Hinted. We should be living what she calls *a normal married life.' Desperately she wants that Ashington boy. She forgets that even if I did meet your father that would do nothing to further her plans. You can take a horse to the water but you can't make it drink."

  "Well, you won't go to Ceylon and he won't come to England, so there is nothing Aunt Martha can do."

  "Sometimes I think when she looks at me she is wondering if there is some way she can make me disappear."

  "Disappear!"

  "Off the face of the earth."

  'Tou are dramatizing again!"

  She looked at me earnestly. "No, I'm not, Siddons. Tm an encumbrance and Martha doesn't like encumbrances. WTien they exist she is the sort of woman who will seek a way of getting rid of them."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "I don't like this house. Sometimes I think I'm being warned. It's eerie. Don't }'0u feel it?"

  "It's this talk about ghosts. Margaret in the gallery and all that."

  "It's people's thoughts that can make that feeling. If someone's there plotting something . . ."