When he returned to Hugh’s grave, he found Ginny standing beside it, and although she was in his thoughts just then, her sudden appearance startled him. Dressed all in black, she looked very small, and her face, under the black bonnet, was deathly pale. Her eyes, too, were devoid of their colour, as if pain and weeping had washed it away, so that when she turned towards him, her look was that of an elderly child.
‘Oh, Martin,’ she said in a whisper, and made a little gesture with her black-gloved hands, looking at him in helpless appeal.
For a moment he was unable to speak and when he did his words got caught up in the back of his throat.
‘I knew you’d been here … recently … because of the flowers being so fresh.’
‘Yes, I come here every day. Somehow I can’t keep away from this spot … It’s very stupid of me, I know, because Hugh isn’t here in the ground, is he? Only his poor burnt body is here … and that’s not the dear good boy I knew, who was always such a kind brother to me.’
She began very quietly to weep, and Martin, in the most natural way, went close and drew her into his arms. He held her with great tenderness and she leant against him, thankfully, her head, in its small close-fitting bonnet, resting sideways against his chest. She wept with tired hopelessness, and when she spoke between her sobs, her voice was only just audible, so close was it to exhaustion.
‘Martin, how can God be good when he does such terrible things to us? It seems Hugh was meant to be killed by fire … First the accident years ago, when we were still in the nursery … Now this … and this time he’s dead. But why should God do that to Hugh? That’s the question my father asks, and so do I.’
‘Yes,’ Martin said, ‘I’ve asked it too.’
‘And can you understand it?’ she asked, drawing away to look up at him. ‘Can you forgive it? Because I cannot! That God should be so dreadfully cruel … I cannot forgive it. I shan’t even try.’
She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dried her eyes. She was trying hard to compose herself.
‘I still can’t believe Hugh is gone … That I shall never see him again …’ She stood very still, looking down at the grave. ‘I don’t care about another life. It’s too long to wait. I want Hugh as he always was.’ She drew a deep, tremulous breath, and turned to look across the churchyard. ‘Alice is buried over there.’
‘Yes. I saw.’
‘I can’t feel anything for her. I keep thinking to myself that if Hugh had not tried to save her, he would still be here with us.’
‘You have put flowers on her grave all the same.’
‘Yes, because he would have wanted me to.’
On leaving the churchyard, they walked together along the lane till they came to the first bridle-gate opening into Railes land.
‘Don’t leave me yet,’ Ginny said. ‘Come with me part of the way.’
So they walked together through the belt of trees and out onto the open parkland, and Ginny, in answer to his enquiry, talked about her father.
‘He’s sick, Martin, and very weak. He was badly burnt, you know, and he is still in terrible pain. His breathing is better than it was but … the slightest exertion makes him cough and … it’s a terrible thing to see and hear … But all that would be as nothing, I’m sure, if it were not for losing Hugh. That is what has struck him down. And oh, Martin, if you saw him now, you’d find him so changed from what he was! He’s very brave. Or he tries to be. Too brave, for it costs him dear. Kate and Charles are still with us, thank God, and will stay until after the lying-in. It is Papa’s wish, you see, that Katharine’s child should be born at Railes … Because now that Hugh is no longer here, the estate will go to Katharine and Charles. Papa has spoken of it quite often. Death is much on his mind just now so naturally he is hoping ‒’
Her voice broke; she was in tears; and Martin said what she could not say.
‘He is hoping, before he dies, to see his grandson and future heir.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope and pray that his wish may be granted. But I hope too that he is mistaken in thinking himself so close to death. And I think perhaps, with the birth of the child, he may find the will to live.’
‘Oh, Martin, I pray you are right! Because I don’t know how I should ever bear it if Papa were taken from us as well.’
She came close and took Martin’s arm and he, looking down at her pale, pinched face, usually so full of mischief, thought how very cruel it was that the first real sorrow of her life should be one of such magnitude. They walked on slowly together, over the green slopes of the parkland, where grazed the Manor Farm cattle and sheep, then down into the golden valley, and along the bank of the trout stream, where the water ran pure and clear over its bed of broken stone and where, in the warm air above, bright blue dragonflies darted swiftly to and fro. And now, as they walked along together, Ginny talked about the fire.
It had not spread to the kitchen or to the rooms above it because the wall dividing the old part of the wing from the new was, of course, the original gable-end, built of good stone, four feet thick. Only one door, at ground level, connected the two parts of the wing, and this door, though badly burnt, had not been breached. Still, neither the kitchen nor the main part of the house had escaped completely, for a number of windows had been broken and smoke had got in, causing much damage.
The burnt-out section of the wing had now been demolished and the debris removed. The hole in the outer wall of the chimney, where the culprit beam had burnt away, was now filled up, and the roof-end had been repaired. Charles had arranged for these things to be done and he had also brought in a number of men to deal with the damage to the house. The broken windows had been replaced; the blackened rooms cleaned and redecorated; the carpets and furniture were being restored. Scarcely a visible trace remained, Ginny said, though the smell of the smoke still hung everywhere and would, it was said, for a long time to come.
‘Charles has offered to rebuild the end of that wing. Indeed, he has insisted upon it, for Papa has not money enough to do it, and we need those rooms most desperately. Papa wants your advice on the matter but he’s not really well enough to see anyone just at present.’ Ginny squeezed Martin’s arm. ‘When he is, you will come, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’m so glad I met you today. You and Hugh were such good friends in the days when we had lessons together. I’ve been thinking a lot about those days. I can’t get Hugh out of my mind. He was always such a dear, kind brother to me, and I was often horrid to him. I said some spiteful things to him sometimes ‒ and to Papa ‒ because there was always money enough for Hugh to go travelling abroad but never enough for me to go too. And oh, if I only had him back! I’d never be jealous of him again!’
She came to a standstill, overcome by tears, and stood, small and childlike, with her head deep-bowed. Martin turned towards her and blindly she put out her hands to him. And as they stood thus together, silent in grief and sympathy, a man came briskly along the path on the opposite side of the stream and across the wooden footbridge some twenty yards from where they stood. It was Ginny’s brother-in-law. He had come from the house in search of her.
‘Katharine was beginning to worry,’ he said, as she and Martin turned towards him, ‘and so was your father, needless to say.’
‘They need not have worried,’ Ginny said. She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then blew her nose. ‘Kate knew where I had gone. And I am perfectly safe, as you see, for I met Martin in the churchyard and he has kindly walked back with me.’
‘Yes, quite so,’ Yuart said. He acknowledged Martin with a nod. ‘But we were not to know that, Ginny, and as you’ve been gone longer than usual, it is natural that we should be concerned. I feel bound to say, too, that I think it inconsiderate of you to worry your family in this way, when your father is still far from well, and your sister is so close to her time.’
‘Please don’t scold me, Charles,’ Ginny said, speaking with frail dignity. �
�I’m quite sure neither Kate nor Papa would want you to scold me on their behalf.’
For a little while Yuart was speechless. He looked at her in blank dismay, undone by the simple truth of her plea.
‘My dear child!’ he said then, but this time his exasperation was softened by a note of remorse. Gently, he went to her and drew her arm into his. ‘Come along. I’ll take you home. And not one further word of reproach shall I utter, now or at any future time.’ He turned and addressed himself to Martin. ‘I’m much obliged to you, Mr Cox, for your kindness to my sister-in-law, and I know both my wife and my father-in-law will be pleased to know she was safe in the company of someone they know.’
Martin gave a little bow.
‘It was my pleasure to meet Miss Ginny as I did and it was my privilege to escort her part of the way home.’
He was about to speak to Ginny when she forestalled him. ‘I hope you are not going to be so stiff and formal with me, Martin dear. It really would be too absurd when only a short while ago I wept on your shoulder in the churchyard. Indeed, I might well have done so again, if Charles had not come along when he did.’ She smiled at him: a brave, wistful smile; and reached out with her free hand to touch his arm. ‘It’s been such a comfort, talking to you. You’re so much a part of the old days, you see. And I hope it won’t be too long before Papa is well enough for you to come and talk to him about ‒ well, you know what about.’
‘I hope so, too,’ Martin said.
A fortnight later, he read in The Chardwell Gazette that Katharine Yuart had given birth to a son, and that mother and infant were in good health. The child would be named Richard Hugh, Soon after this announcement, Martin received a letter from Ginny, asking him to come to Railes to discuss the rebuilding of the wing-end, and to take luncheon with the family.
‘My father’s hands still give him pain, so I write for him. He is in better spirits at present, thanks to the birth of his grandson, but is still far from strong. Be prepared to find him changed.’
Accordingly, on the day appointed, he drove out to Railes in the pony and trap. From the gravelled carriage-road, as it traversed the upper slopes of the park, the old house looked as serene as ever, and just as beautiful, Martin thought. Even as he drove round to the stables and glanced across at the kitchen wing, he could see little sign of the damage done, though when he stood in the stable-court, talking to the groom, Jack Sherard, there were signs enough, and all too plain, for the man’s face was badly scarred, and so were his hands.
‘We’re all of us marked one way or another, Mr Cox, but the hurts we got that night, well, ‒ we’d go through it all again, and worse, if only it would bring the young master back to us, and the poor girl he was trying to save.’
While Martin was talking to Sherard, John Tarrant came from the back of the house, with the two spaniels at his heels, and Martin went to meet him. Prepared though he was to find the bereaved man changed, he was nevertheless shocked by the full extent of that change, because John Tarrant, at fifty-four, was already an old man. His once handsome face, scarred worse than Sherard’s, was only barely recognizable, and his hair, having been burnt away, was only just beginning to grow, patchily, in a grey stubble. He still wore loose cotton gloves, to hide and protect his damaged hands, and he still walked with the aid of a stick, in pain from an injury to his knee. When he spoke, it was with an effort, drawing each breath stressfully, up from the depths of his scorched lungs. But the worst wound of all, as Martin knew, was the loss of his son; and the suffering he endured from this showed in the haunted look of his eyes; in the moments of absentmindedness that came over him while he talked, when he would break off in the middle of a sentence and stare into space, having lost his way.
Yet still, in spite of his afflictions, he was as courteous as ever, talking to Martin as a friend, apologizing for his lapses of memory, and, on reaching the kitchen courtyard, ushering him to a wooden seat placed against the wall of the kitchen garden. From this position they looked across the yard to the back of the house and could see the whole of the kitchen wing, reduced now to its original length. Because the burnt-out section had been demolished, and a certain amount of repair-work done, there was little visible evidence of the fire, and a stranger, in all probability, would have been surprised to learn of its occurrence. But the signs were there, nevertheless, and to Martin, who not only knew the house but knew so well the nature of stone, those signs were all too eloquent.
The gable wall, which was also, in part, the wall of the chimney, had been blackened by a thick coating of soot, but this had since been scraped away, leaving the surface startlingly clean. But the stonework, subjected to so great a heat, had undergone a change of colour and was now flushed a deep dusky pink. No amount of scraping would remove that colour, as Martin knew, for he had once handled stone taken from a burnt-out mill and, sawing it up for use elsewhere, had seen how that same pink flush had gone right through each ashlar block, staining it to the last granule.
Along the side wall of the kitchen wing, both upstairs and down, all the windows had been replaced, and some, too, in the main back wall of the house, where it joined the wing at a right angle. The ivy that had covered the kitchen wall had been burnt away completely, of course, but juice oozing from its thickest stems had stained the stonework, leaving a ramified pattern behind, limned like the ghost of the ivy itself.
These things, and many more, Martin observed as he sat talking to John Tarrant. The workmen brought in by Charles Yuart had done a very thorough job. Yuart himself had made sure of that, anxious to see the ruin demolished and the debris cleared without delay, for safety’s sake. He had also done his best to ensure that every grim reminder of the tragedy should be removed, eradicated, or disguised.
‘He wanted to spare our feelings in every way possible, and I have much to thank him for. Without him I do not know how this household would have got through these terrible weeks. But in spite of all Charles has done … there can be no forgetting for me. I keep going back over the past, to the time when Hugh was burnt as a child. It’s as though that was meant as a warning to me, and I did take heed of it, God knows. I made such stringent rules in the house … and all of them to no avail … because the cause of the fire this time lay elsewhere … My grandfather had that extension built, and did it all on the cheap, as you know. And now, years later, it has cost Hugh his life. But I am just as much to blame. If I had done as your father advised and pulled that damned extension down ‒’
‘Sir, you could not have foreseen this. Nobody could.’
‘No, no. You are quite right. And I have not brought you here to inflict my self-reproaches on you but to … to ask your advice about rebuilding. These past weeks I have lacked the will to take any firm decisions whatever. I could not bear the thought of further disturbance, further mess. But matters are somewhat different now. Katharine has a son, as you know, and it’s high time I looked to the future, even though my share in it is likely to be of short duration. So … did you know that my son-in-law has offered to pay the cost of the work?’
‘Yes, Miss Ginny told me.’
‘Well, then, the point is this. You and your father did all my repairs and what building I could afford, and excellent work it was, too. But you are a busy man these days and Charles seems to think you wouldn’t have time … He says you no longer do such work and he talks of calling contractors in.’
‘It is not that I am too busy, sir. I would always have time to do whatever you asked of me, so long as it was within my capabilities.’ Martin paused. He detected awkwardness in John Tarrant’s manner and, confident that he knew its cause, he gauged his answer accordingly. ‘The plain truth of the matter is that I am not an accredited builder, and when it comes to work such as this, I must confess to having my doubts.’
John Tarrant looked relieved.
‘Well, that’s as honest an answer as anyone could wish for, and I’m grateful for it. But you will of course supply the stone?’
‘Yes.
Most certainly.’
At half past eleven Charles Yuart arrived, riding into the stable-court on a handsome dun mare. At the same moment Ginny emerged from the back of the house, still dressed in black but with a grey stole over her shoulders. Martin rose and she gave him her hand. Then she stooped and kissed her father’s cheek.
‘I got tired of waiting for you to come in so I came to see what you were about. Kate is talking to the nursemaid. Baby Dick has got the gripes.’
Yuart now joined the group at the bench and, after an exchange of civilities, addressed himself to his father-in-law.
‘I shall not be staying to lunch, I’m afraid. I have urgent business in Sharveston. It really is most unfortunate but I hope Mr Cox will understand if I come to the point immediately and ask what decision you have reached together as a result of your discussion.’
‘Well, you’ll be glad to know, Charles, that Martin feels as you do, that this is work for a firm of contractors.’
‘Ah!’ Yuart said, gratified, and looked at Martin directly this time. ‘I’m glad we are in agreement, Mr Cox. It simplifies matters considerably. As a matter of fact my own idea is to engage a reputable architect ‒ probably Lunnett of Cheltenham, the leading man, I understand, when it comes to restoring older houses ‒ and be guided by him in choosing a builder.’
‘You must do as you think best, of course, but I hardly think you need give yourself any such extra expense. The work will be simple and straightforward, well within the scope of a first-rate builder, and you really couldn’t do any better than call on Robert Clayton and Son, whom you already know.’
‘It is not a question of this rebuilding work alone,’ Yuart said. ‘Mr Tarrant may not have mentioned it but I intend, in a year or so, to enlarge the west wing quite substantially, and to do that work, Mr Cox I shall not be employing Clayton and Son.’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 19
