I stammered again: "It was the whiskey."
"No," he said, "it is love."
It is difficult for me to remember what happened next. It was only later when I began to understand my own nature that I could explain it. Then it seemed as though I had always known this would happen in some way and that I had half wanted it to. I was to live in shame for weeks to come; I refused to look clearly at what had happened and saw only what I wanted to believe.
There was a dreamlike quality about it all. The whiskey, which I had never tasted before, had had its effect on me. I felt that I was outside this scene, an onlooker, and the girl who was seduced
by a man whom she told herself she heartily dislflced could not be myself.
He was full of guile. He knew exactly how to play on my senses. He had chosen the moment with skill and it seemed as though fate was his ally.
When he said it was love I muttered something about the girl he was going to marry. I heard him laugh and somehow that laughter excited me.
"She's here with me," he said. "She is Miss Sarah Ashington. I decided she was the one as soon as I set eyes on her."
I did not know myself. Perhaps I had deliberately refused to.
He had spread the rugs on the floor and rolled one up to make a pillow.
"Even with the fire," he said, "it's bitterly cold. Did you know that the warmth from the human body is the most comforting of all warmers on a cold night?"
My sealskin coat was spread on the floor to dry.
"When it's dry I'll cover you over with it," he said tenderly. "That and I will keep you warm."
I kept saying: "We ought to go now." My voice still sounded as though it came from a long way off. He lifted me up in his arms and then put me down on the rugs. I was afraid in a dreamy sort of way, afraid and yet wildly excited. I could feel my heart beating like a drum. He knelt beside me and kissed my brow, my eyes and my throat. I felt his hands on me and then he was beside me, caressing me, whispering to me, and I made the startling discovery that I wanted him to go on. Of course he was a master in the art of making love and it seemed that he knew me better than I knew myself. I thought I was dreaming. I must be dreaming. This could not be happening to me.
"I must go," I muttered, but I made no attempt to resist him.
"Sarah, my love," he murmured. "Didn't you know? It was meant to be."
I awoke, cold and stiff. I wondered where I was. I was lying on a hard floor, my coat over me. Realization came to me. Nothing could ever be the same again.
I sat up. He was kneehng by the fire, coaxing a blaze.
"What happened?" I cried.
"Bliss!" he said grinning at me. "Absolute blissl"
"We have been here. . .all night."
''It's eight o'clock."
"Eight. . . in the morning!"
"It's still snowing. We'll find our way to the Grange though. Daylight will help."
I covered my face with my hands, remembering vaguely. He came and knelt beside me and drew my hands away from my face. He kissed me.
'Tou can't tell me you hate me now," he said.
"I don't know. I can't think what. . ."
"It was all very natural. After all, it had to happen sooner or later. Don't worry. We'll be married just as soon as I can arrange it. I'll take you back with me. You know that was the intention right from the first."
"Marry you/"
"You look surprised. I hope you are not in the habit of sleeping with men casually and then saying good-bye."
"You . . . you arranged this!"
"Oh yes. I have a contract with the heavenly powers. I want to seduce a girl, I say. Please put on a snowstorm and provide a cottage in the woods for the occasion."
"If you had been a gentleman you would not have taken advantage of the situation."
"Ah, but I am not a gentleman. You know that. I am a cad who has learned to take every advantage which is offered."
"I think the best thing we can do is to forget it ever happened."
"That's impossible. You are no longer the virgin, Sarah, that you were when you came into this cottage last night. Besides, what if there were. . .consequences. . . as there might well be."
"This is becoming a nightmare."
"You seemed to find the situation interesting last night."
"You gave me the whiskey to dull my senses."
"It seemed to revive your senses. You are not the reluctant shrinking young lady you thought yourself to be. You've been awakened, my dear, to the fact that there is something more to life than raising funds for the church roof. I tell you this—you
were not meant for single blessedness. You should not blush unseen and waste your sweetness on the desert air." "I did not expect such poetic thoughts from you." "I know more like that." He picked me up suddenly and kissed me on the lips—one of those long startling kisses which made me uneasy.
"Listen, Sarah. I want to marry you. Last night was just a beginning. You were off your guard. You'd lost your serpent's tongue. Last night you were yourself. The cold, the walk through the forest, the whiskey . . . they betrayed you. You are meant for love, my darling, and I will be your tutor in that wondrous art. Now here is the plan. We must leave now for the Grange. We will tell them exactly what happened, excluding of course an account of that delicious intimacy which is for us alone. Your aunts are going to be a little distraught. A young girl to spend a night alone in a cottage with a man! I shall imply—without saying so, which would be indelicate and scarcely truthful!-that I was a man of honor. I hadn't my sword with me to put between us as we lay on the rugs but there was a walking stick which had to serve instead. I shall not mention that it contained that nectar of the gods which warmed us both and swept away your inhibitions so that the real Sarah emerged. Have no fear. Leave this to me. In a few days I shall present myself to the aunts and tell them that I want your hand in marriage." "Stop it. This is not a joke. I am furiously angry." *'Now, my dearest, having lost your virginity it will avail you nothing to lose your temper as well. You must make the best of what has happened. You must remember that you did not repulse my advances. If you were the girl you pretend to be you would have run out, half-naked, into the snow. You did nothing of the sort. You allowed yourself to be seduced and I do not think it was entirely distasteful to you. Be yourself, Sarah. It's natural to love and be loved. You and I will be happy together. Come on. Put on your coat and those boots. They are dry now. It's back to the Grange."
He kicked out the remains of the fire. "We don't want the place to be burned down, do we," he said. "Parrot Cottage! It will always be a favorite spot of mine. As long as I live I shall never
forget the night I spent in Parrot Cottage. Are you ready? Let me look at you. Yes, you do look different. You are more lovely than ever. There is a secret knowledge in your eyes. It will take about three weeks I think. The banns have to be read."
I did not answer him as he opened the door of the cottage and we went out into the forest.
I felt as though I were still in a dream from which I must soon awaken.
It was nearly midday when we returned to the Grange. Aunt Mabel came into the hall as we entered the house.
"My dear Sarah," she cried. "So you stayed the night at the nursing home. It was the wisest thing to do. We guessed, of course."
For a second or so I hesitated, wondering whether it would save a lot of explanation to let her believe this; then I remembered that we had seen Jack Wall at the station and that he might mention the fact. I could see myself getting tangled up in deceit.
"No," I said, "we came last night."
Clinton took over. "There was no conveyance and we started to walk. We were lost in the forest but we did find shelter and we waited until we could get back."
I saw the look of shocked amazement in Aunt Mabel's eyes. Taking shelter all night . . . with a man! I felt the color coming into my cheeks. Aunt Mabel was merely emphasizing the enormity of the situation. What if she knew exactly what had happened!
/>
Aunt Martha appeared.
"They're here," said Aunt Mabel unnecessarily. "They came last night."
"Came last night. . . then where . . . ?"
Clinton said: "How kind you are, Miss Ashington, to be so concerned. The train was very late. There were delays all along the line. We tried to get to the Grange but the blizzard was such that we could not fight against it. We found a place to shelter and were forced to take it until we could get back."
He had a certain way with women. Even Aunt Martha was not immune to it.
He went on: "It's all over now. You can rest assured, Miss Ashington, that I did all I could to look after your niece."
Aunt Martha became practical. "You need some hot food. There's some oxtail stew in the kitchen. Mabel, go and tell Mrs. Lamb to get it ready right away. You'll want to get those things off, I don't doubt. Come down in ten minutes. Then I should think you'd want to rest."
"It's just what we need," said Clinton, looking at Aunt Martha with admiration.
I was glad to escape from them. I took off my clothes and put on a warm woolen dress. When I went down to the winter parlor, Clinton was already there. I told myself that I was too upset to want to eat but I soon discovered how hungry I was. Clinton seemed to guess my thoughts and they amused him.
Afterwards we went to our rooms. Hot water had been sent up. I bathed, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and lay down on my bed.
It was not long before Aunt Martha came in.
The sky was heavy with snow clouds and I was glad that there was little light in the room. I turned my face from the window for fear she should notice something different about me.
She sat down on the armchair.
"This," she said, "is most unfortunate. I should like the servants to assume that you came back on the morning train, having stayed the night in the nursing home."
"Jack Wall saw us come in," I told her.
"Disastrous!" cried Aunt Martha. "There will be talk."
"Aunt Martha, we started for home. It was impossible to get here. We were lost in the forest. What else could we have done?"
"People will talk," she said.
"Let them!" I retorted angrily.
"That's foolish. Everything I plan goes awry. I had thought you might marry and settle here. I have as a matter of fact written to a very dear friend in the North. She has three sons . . . charming young men. They are a very good family although they have recently fallen on hard times. I had hopes that you and one of these young men would find pleasure in each other's company. You
could marry and perhaps he could be persuaded to change his name to Ashington. If you had a son . . .'*
I felt a little hysterical. "Oh, Aunt Martha," I cried. "Stop it. Stop it! I can't bear it. I'm not going to marry your young man. "When I marry I'll marry whom I want to."
"What is the matter with you, Sarah? You're not yourself. You owe us something, you know. Haven't we taken you in? What would have happened to you if we hadn't? You owe it to us . . . to the family. . . . But perhaps this is not the time to talk of these things. In any case there is bound to be gossip. People will be saying you lost your way deliberately. This sort of thing is not good for the reputation of a young girl."
"Aunt Martha, you took me in, it's true. I thought it was because I am your niece, because I belonged here. I did not know that the bill would be presented and I would be expected to pay for what I have had."
"This is vulgar, I refuse to discuss it anymore." Aunt Martha rose. "You seem to have taken leave of your senses. Jack Wall will gossip. The servants will know what time you came in and will tell other servants. You can be sure that before the week's out the entire neighborhood will know that you spent the night with a
man."
"At least it will put a little spice into their usually flat gossip."
"It will diminish your chances, I can tell you."
"Aunt Martha," I said, raising myself on my arm and looking straight at her, "I don't care. I simply don't care."
"I will talk to you later. You are hysterical now, but I think you realize the importance of what has happened."
She stalked to the door and when she had gone I lay back and tried to laugh at the conventions of the society in which we lived. A young lady was expected to perish in a blizzard rather than seek shelter alone with a man. But in truth I had been out all night. I had been seduced and I had allowed it to happen. My excuse was that he had plied me with whiskey to which I was unaccustomed. There was no excuse. My reputation was tarnished.
I kept thinking of what had happened. Vague images which I wanted to forget forced themselves into my memory.
He had changed me. He had brought me face to face with a
new aspect of myself. There was a part of me that wanted to be with him, to make love with him even while I hated him; and because of that hatred it was almost unbearably exciting.
I might have known that he would have his way. Part of me admired his persistence while the other part deplored it.
He had a long talk with Aunt Martha, which he told me about after. He told her that he would like to speak with her in private if she would permit it. He had then said to her: "Sarah is young and innocent and does not realize the importance of what has happened. Dear Miss Ashington, you are a woman of the world and you will understand how deeply I deplore the situation in which we have been placed—through no fault of ours, believe me, Miss Ashington. To have attempted to walk through the forest in that blizzard could have been death to us both. There was no alternative but to take shelter. Oh, I understand your misgivings and, as it happens, I have since my arrival in England fallen deeply in love with your niece and I long to make her my wife. To a lady of your sensible outlook this will seem overhasty, but, remember, I lived close to your brother, I have read the letters Sarah sent to him. I felt I knew her before I came here. You would understand, I know. Miss Ashington."
She had nodded gravely. They were two worldly people debating how to settle the gossip, to right a wrong which had been thrust upon us.
"'Have I your permission to ask Sarah to marry me?' I asked her," he went on to tell me. "Believe me, my darling, permission was most graciously given. She then explained to me that Ashington was a name which had been honored through the centuries. She seemed to think I might find it so glorious that I would wish to reverse the law of a wife's taking her husband's name. I pretended to consider the idea. What do you think of that?"
"I think you deceive so easily that you must have had plenty of practice in the art."
"When I want something I go for it. Nothing stands in my way if I can help it."
"You are quite ruthless."
"That may be. Now, with Aunt Martha's permission, I shall go down on my knees, dear Sarah, and say: 'Will you marry me?'"
"Spare yourself the effort," I retorted.
He gave me that tender smile, and although I knew it to be false, it touched me deeply.
The snow lasted for a week and then the thaw set in. Clinton had gone up to London but the weather was too bad for me to visit my father.
"We want no repetition of that last trip," said Aunt Martha grimly.
I knew by the furtive looks the servants gave me that they were talking among themselves. The Cannon girls were overbright and did not refer to it. I wanted to snap my fingers at them all and it occurred to me how bored I should be if I had to spend my life in this restricted atmosphere. I should grow like the aunts in time. But they had never had an adventure such as I had had. How could I be sure of that? Perhaps Aunt Martha and the lover who had wanted to marry her sister . . .
I could picture what was in store. The three eligible gentlemen would be produced. Good family fallen on lean times ... so lean that one would be ready to marry me and change his name to Ashington so that I could bear a son of that name.
It was so ridiculous, so snobbish and so impossible.
My father was going to die. My dreams of being with him had gone. There was an
alternative—an exciting one which made my heart leap at the thought of it.
I missed him. The days seemed long without him—long and empty. When he had been in the house I had locked my bedroom door for I had half expected him to come storming in. But he did not. I had noticed the teasing look in his eyes. I felt he had discovered secrets in me which were unknown to myself. He had forced me into an intimacy which was revealing not only to him but to me.
I was watching for him to come back . . . waiting for him.
In my heart I knew where I was drifting. Could one marry a man whom one did not love? Was it possible to feel an overpowering physical attraction for a man whose honor one doubted, a man one recognized as one of the buccaneers of life, taking what
he wanted and being quite ruthless. I was sure he had been the lover of many women.
As soon as the snow was clear I went to see my fatiier. He had missed me very much and I saw that he had grown weaker. It was more obvious after an absence.
He told me that Clinton had been to see him. He had spoken to him of his feelings for me. "I am so glad, Sarah. He says he is certain that you love him too and that you have given him an indication that you do."
I sat there fuming inwardly. How dared he!
"My dear Sarah," went on my father, "I should die happy if I thought you and Clinton were to marry."
"Is he the sort of man you would want for a son-in-law?"
"He's strong. He's clever. The Shaw plantation has become the finest in Ceylon since he took over. He has been of great help to me. I have had my difficulties, Sarah, and it has been good to have him as a neighbor. I owe him a great deal. I have often wondered why he did not marry. I fancy the English out there were not to his liking. Women have always found him attractive and he likes them. However, I believe he came to England intending to marry."
"That seems rather calculated, Father."
"Oh, it's not like choosing a house or a suit of clothes, you know. He just hoped he would find someone. I had talked so much about you. I even let him read your letters. I remember his saying to me, 'I like Sarah. I'm looking forward to meeting her/ He was halfway there before he actually saw you. You're very attractive, Sarah, in quite an unusual way. Oh, it would please me very much. I have always felt guilty about you. You were such an amusing child when only a baby. Then your mother took you away and I was denied contact with you. It has been such a pleasure to see you again."
The Spring of the Tiger Page 16
