" Yes ... in view of ... everything, I do."
I did not want to move from this spot. I felt as though [ had found a peaceful place in which to rest and be happy. Behind me lay that grim institution with its dark secrets; ahead of me the Revels and, somewhere not far distant, was my father's house. But here I was suspended between threats of disaster, and here I wanted to stay.
I believed in that moment that I was in love with Simon Redvers and he with me. It was a strange conclusion to arrive at at such a time in a cold country lane.
It did not seem strange to me that these strong emotions I felt were for Simon Redvers. In some way he reminded me of Gabriel; he was Gabriel without his weakness. When I was with Simon I understood what had made me hurry into that marriage with Gabriel. I had seen something to love and protect there, and that was what I needed; I had loved him in a way, for there are many kinds of love. Pity is love, I thought; the need to protect is love. But there was a deep and passionate love of which I knew nothing; I knew, though, that to love completely one must know every phase of loving, and that was the real adventure, to widen one's emotions, to discover their depths as the years passed.
But I was a long way from such an adventure. There was so much to be lived through first. I had to be delivered of a child and of my fear.
And at this moment I could not peer very far into the mist which hid the future.
But Simon was with me, and such a thought, even at this time, could set my senses singing.
" Very well," I said, " I am ready to listen to your commands."
"Ready then. The first thing we're going to do is drive to an inn a mile along this road. There we are going to eat," " I couldn't eat."
" You have forgotten that you suggested I should command
" But the thought of food revolts me."
" There is a quiet little room just off the inn parlour where the host serves his special guests. I am always a special guest. His speciality is a pudding made with steak and mushrooms. lt has to be tasted to be believed. We'll have a claret which he will bring from his cellar especially for us. I defy you to resist when you smell the aroma of mine host's speciality."
" I will come with you and watch you enjoy it."
He took my hand again, brought it half-way to his lips, then pressed it and smiled at me.
It was strange that I could be almost happy as we bowled along that road with the wind in our faces and the wintry sun trying to smile at us; but I was.
I even ate a little of the special pudding; and the claret warmed me.
Simon was practical as he always would be.
" Your next step," he said, " is to write to your father. You must ask him for the truth. But mind you, whatever the truth, we are not going to be downhearted."
" But suppose that is really my mother in that place?"
" Well, suppose it is."
" Let's look at it clearly, Simon. My mother in that place ... and myself, according to some, seeing visions, doing strange things."
" We don't believe in the visions, do we?" he said gently.
" I don't. And how can I thank you and your grandmother for supporting me in this?"
"You don't have to thank us for having an opinion, Catherine. If we could only catch the monk in the act, that is all we should need to prove our case. It's my opinion that he's found some place in which to hide himself. We must try to discvover it. Next week the Christmas festivities will begin, and my grandmother and I will spend two nights in the house. That may give us a chance to discover something."
" I wish it were this week."
" It will soon come."
" And if they try anything in the meantime ... ?"
He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: " If you should see the monk again, tell no one. I believe he wants you to talk of what you have seen, but do not give him that satisfaction. Continue to lock your doors at night so that you can't be startled from your sleep. You haven't been. have 196 you, since you began to lock them? I think that's significant. In the meantime you will hear from your father--and you are not going to be distressed, whatever he has to tell you. I never did believe that we relied on our ancestors for what we are. We are in command of our own fates."
" I'll remember that, Simon."
" Yes, do remember it. What we are and what we become is in our own hands. Think of it like this: what is the population of England to-day? Some ten times what it was a few hundred years ago. Has it struck you that if we could trace our ancestors far back enough we must all be related in some way with each other. In all our families there have very likely been rogues and saints, madmen and geniuses.
No, Catherine, each of us is an individual with his--or her--own life in his hands. "
" You are philosophical," I said. " I had never thought that. I had thought you practical in the extreme, excelling in good, straightforward common sense, but without imagination and therefore without sympathy."
" That's the mask I wear. We all wear them, don't we? I'm tough; I'm shrewd; I'm a blunt man who doesn't mince his words. That's the outward me. Not a very attractive personality, you'll agree, as you did on our first meeting Brash, determined that no one shall get the better of him-therefore he's going to start trying to get the better of everyone else. That's part of me ... I don't deny it. I'm all of that. But perhaps I'm something else besides. A man's made up of many parts...." He looked at me slyly. " And a woman is probably more complex still."
" Please go on," I said. " You're doing so much for me."
" All right. When you go back to the Revels how are you going to feel?"
" I don't know, except that it won't be so good as I feel here."
"No," he said. You're going to be afraid. You're going to hurry up the stairs, turning to see if you are being pursued; you're going to throw open the door of your room, and you're going to look anxiously about you to see if he's there. Then you're going to lock him out, but you won't lock out your fear completely, because it's there in your mind and with the darkness your fear will grow stronger.
"
" You are right, of course."
He leaned across the table and took my hand.
" Catherine, there is nothing to fear. There is never any197 thing to fear. Fear is like a cage which prevents our escaping, but we make the bars of the cage ourselves. We see them as strong iron bars . unbreakable. They are not so, Catherine. We ourselves have the power to take those bars in our hands and break them. They can be strong; they can be flimsy; for we ourselves have made them what they are. "
" You are telling me / have nothing to fear 1" "Nothing has really harmed you, has it. You have only been frightened."
" How can I know that it never will?"
" The motive, at least, is becoming clear to us. This person-or persons--is seeking to unnerve you. Your life is not in danger. If you were to die violently, following Gabriel, suspicions would certainly be aroused. No, it is the child who is threatened. This person's motive is to reduce you to such a state of fear that your chances of producing a healthy child ,1 are endangered. In view of Gabriel's death, it has to appear I natural." I " And Gabriel's death"
I began. 1 "I am beginning to think that was the first act in the drama."
" And Friday?" I murmured, remembering then the night before Gabriel's death, when Friday had behaved strangely and insisted on going into the corridor. I told Simon of this. " There was someone there.
Waiting. But for Friday it might have been that night. And then Friday disappeared. "
He put his hand over mine. " We don't know how it happened," he said.
" Let us concern ourselves with what lies ahead of us; we can only conjecture what happened in the past. If we can discover the identity of our monk, if we can catch him in his robe, then we can demand an explanation; and I have no doubt that we shall learn what part he played in Gabriel's death. "
" We must find him, Simon."
" We must. But if you see him again, ignore him. Do no
t try to tackle him. Heaven knows what he might do. If there's anything in our conjectures about Gabriel, remember we may be dealing with a murderer.
You must do as I say, Catherine. "
" I will, Simon."
" And remember," he added, " you are not alone. We're fighting this . together."
We left the inn and he drove me back to the Revels. I was pleased because, although my visit to Worstwhisde had not 198 tfiven me the satisfaction for which I had hoped, I no longer felt alone, and that was a wonderful comfort.
I wrote to my father and I believed that I should have the truth from him in a few days' time, because he would understand my need to know quickly; and when I had posted the letter I felt strengthened. Nothing unusual happened the next day, and during the following morning Dr.
Smith came to the house.
He wanted to see me alone, and Ruth left us in the winter parlour together.
He looked at me almost tenderly as he came to the chair in which I was sitting. He laid his hand on the arm of the chair and said gently: "
So you paid a visit to Worstwhistle."
" I wanted to be sure," I explained.
" Of course you did. And you satisfied yourself that I had been speaking the truth?"
" They would tell me nothing."
He nodded. " The Superintendent acted in the only way possible.
Naturally he must respect the privacy of his patients and their relations. But you did discover that there was a patient of that name in the institution. "
" Yes."
" Catherine, believe me. I am telling you the truth when I say I know that patient to be your mother. Your father, Mervyn Corder, visits her regularly each month. No doubt he thought he was wise in keeping this from you."
" If the patient in Worstwhistle is my mother, no doubt he did."
" I am glad to see you calmer, Catherine. If you had asked me, I would have taken you to Worstwhistle. You would have seen then that I could have done so much more for you than Simon Redvers could possibly do."
I was almost on the point of telling him that I had written to my father, but I did not do so. Simon had said that the two of us would solve the mystery together, and I wanted to keep this our secret matter.
Besides, there was little I hoped for from anything my father could tell me. It semed obvious that the Catherine Corder who was in Worstwhistle must be my mother.
" Perhaps later," the doctor was saying. " I will take you to the place and you might see her."
" Would that serve any useful purpose since I have never known her?"
" But you would like to see your own mother?"
" I doubt if she would know me."
" She has her lucid moments. There are times when she thinks she is young again and you are a baby. And there are other times when she is vaguely aware of what has happened to her."
I shivered. I was not going to tell him that I had a horror of entering that place; that I had a strange premonition that if I crossed that threshold again, I might become a prisoner there. If I told him that, he would listen with sympathy, but he would be telling himself that it was part of my overwrought condition which made me imagine that, as I imagined that I saw " visions."
I could not be so frank with him as I was with Simon. This was a further indication of my feelings for the latter. I told myself that I could trust no one--not even Dr. Smith--for I knew that he was ready to believe that I was in an unbalanced state. But it wasn't true that I trusted no one. I trusted Simon.
Christmas was three days away. The servants had decorated the hall with branches of holly and there was mistletoe too. I had heard some of the female servants giggling with the men as this was fixed up in the most appropriate places. I had seen the dignified William seize Mary-Jane and give her a resounding kiss under the pearly berries.
Mary-Jane responded good-humouredly; it was all part of the fun at Christmas.
Then I received the letter. I was in the garden when I saw the postman coming towards the house. I had been looking out for him because I did not believe my father would keep me long in suspense.
And I was right. There was his handwriting on the envelope.
With wildly beating heart I hurried to my bedroom, and took the precaution of locking the doors before I opened the letter.
My dear Catherine, I read, I was startled and shocked to receive your letter. I understand your feelings and, before you read any further, I want to assure you that the Catherine Corder who is now in Worstwhistle is not your mother, although she is my wife.
I had meant, of course, to tell you the truth on your 200 marriage, but I did not teei I could do so without consulting my brother, who is deeply concerned in this.
My wife and I were devoted to each other, and two years after our marriage we had a child a daughter named Catherine. But this was not you. My wife adored our daughter and could scarcely bear the child out of her sight. She spent the greater part of her time in the nursery supervising everything concerned with her. We had a nurse, of course.
She came to us with good recommendations, and she was affectionate, fond of children and efficient when she was not under the influence of gin.
One day when my wife and I had been visiting friends, there was mist on the moor and we lost our way. We were two hours later than we had expected to be, and when we returned the damage had been done. The nurse, taking advantage of our absence, had become intoxicated; and while she was in this state she had decided to bath the baby. She put our child into a bath of scalding water. There was only one consolation death must have been Almost instantaneous.
My dear Catherine, you who are about to become a mother will understand the grief which overtook my wife. She blamed herself for leaving the child in the nurse's care. I shared her grief, but hers did not grow less as time passed. She continued to mourn the child and I began to be alarmed when she gave way to accusations against herself. She would pace through the house wildly sobbing, wildly laughing. I did not know then what this tragedy had done to her.
I used to tell her that we would have more children. But I could see that the need to pacify her was urgent. And then your uncle Dick had this idea.
I know how fond you are of your Uncle Dick. He has always been so good to you. That is natural, Catherine, when the relationship between you is known. He is your father. Catherine.
It is difficult to explain this to you. I wish he were here so that he could do it himself. He was not a bachelor as he was thought to be.
His wife your mother was French. He met her when he was in port for a spell at Marseilles. She came from Provence and they were married within a few weeks of their first meeting. They 201 were ideally suited and deeply regretted your father's long absences.
I believe he had almost decided to give up the sea when you were about to be born. Strangely enough tragedy hit us both in the same year.
Your mother died when you were born ; and that was not more than two months after we had lost our child.
Your father brought you to us because he wanted a settled home for you, and he and I believed at the time that having a child to care for would help to comfort my wife. You even had the same name. We had called our child Catherine after my wife, and your father--because you were coming to us--had decided that you should be Catherine too. I stopped for a few seconds. I was seeing it all so clearly; events were fitting together neatly to make the picture.
I was exultant because that which I had feared was not true after all.
Then, projecting myself into the past, I seemed to remember her, the wild-eyed woman who held me tightly, so tightly that I cried out in protest. I thought of the man whom I had known as my father, living through those weary years, never forgetting the happiness he had shared with the woman in Worstwhistle, dreaming that he was back in those days of anguish, calling for her to return . not as she was now, but as she had been.
I was filled with pity for him, for her; and I wished that I had been more tolerant of that g
loomy house with its drawn blinds and the sunlight shut out.
I picked up the letter.
Dick thought that you would feel more secure with us than you could be with him. It was no life for a child, he said, with a father who was constantly away from home, particularly one who had no mother. He could not leave the sea now that your mother was dead; he told me that he missed her more when he. was ashore, than when he was at sea, which was natural enough. So we let you believe that you were my daughter, although I often said to him that you would have been happier to know you were his. You know how devoted to your interests he always was.
He was determined that you should receive part of your education in your mother's country and that was why you were sent to Dijon. But we wanted everyone 202 to think of you as my child because I was sure in the beginning that your aunt would come to think of you as her own more readily that way.
Kirkland Revels Page 26
