“And Miss Gowan?”
“She is the best girl in the world,” he said simply.
“Henry is soft on her,” said Robert, breaking his thumb-struck silence. “Soft! Never saw anything like it.”
“You settle, you,” said Henry. The words were mild enough, but his face was crestfallen. When I sought to turn his mood and offer him my felicitations, he only shrugged and turned the subject. I saw a stern reserve in his face, which sat so oddly in a countenance not designed for it that I was hard put not to laugh.
“You are young yet to be thinking of such things.”
“I am six and twenty,” he said, turning to me quickly with the sternness abated not a bit.
I was, I own, surprised. I had thought him not yet twenty. I murmured some apology for prying in his business (although in truth, it was proffered to me on a platter).
He laughed, then, and slapped me on the back.
“You will understand, Danforth,” he said, “if you do not already! Presently, or someday, you will understand!”
Such is the force of his good nature and open ways that I could not be affronted by this presumption but looked, I fancy, a trifle sheepish and desired him to not beat me any further, as I had taken a good drubbing today already at his hands, at which he laughed even harder.
When we reached the path that leads down to Rawblood, through the orchard, he made as if to go on, and I detained him with some word of thanks. He looked at me curiously.
“Do you stop here?” he asked.
“Why yes, my host is Alonso Villarca. Whom you may know.” I waited to see what pearls would fall.
He rubbed his head and said, “I had forgotten that it is now called Rawblood. For you know it was Dempsey House before.”
“But that must have been fifty years ago.”
“Arr, ’tis not over long in these here parts!” He affected an accent and an air that reminded me irresistibly of Shakes. “I had not recalled… I thought you meant Two Bridges, over the way.”
“Why should I not stay here?”
“You may, of course. But no one else chooses to, and Mrs. Hitchens, who was the housekeeper, whose daughter married a corn chandler in Exeter—”
“Yes, yes, very well!”
“She stayed until the last, she says. For having had employment there with Mr. Villarca’s mother and father, she wished to, and because of having known Mr. Villarca since he was a baby. But she could not stomach it and left too, in the end.”
I exclaimed. I felt for Alonso. It was no wonder that he cherished a strong consciousness of the small-mindedness of the English.
“If they choose to go, that is their affair. I will not presume to judge the promptings of another man’s conscience. But what Alonso does is for the benefit of all, of medicine, and of England…” I heard myself going on in this fashion and was obliged to pull myself up when I realized I was repeating a large part of Alonso’s speech to me in the cellar.
Mr. Gilmore looked at me in puzzlement.
“Oh, the experiments? But they did not care for that, indeed,” he said. “For Mr. Villarca has had fits like that since he came back from the university, and they are all devilish fond of him. No, that would not have troubled them. It was the other thing that sent them off.”
“What other thing?” I asked in no small exasperation, for I had expended a good deal of passion on what I perceived to be an unappreciative audience.
“It was—well!—they got the priest to the house.”
“For illness? For what cause?”
Here, Robert, who had been occupied with pulling hairs out of Sadie’s mane, piped up. “For the haunting of it,” he said in his high voice. “For the Rawblood ghost!” He settled back to his task, cherubic face intent.
Henry Gilmore nodded and turned serious eyes on me. “Aye,” he said, “it was so.”
I was so taken aback by this piece of village mummery that, for a moment, I could not find a thing to say. Presently, I found my voice. “I have known Mr. Villarca these twenty years—more! Those who held household positions for my friend seemed in fact excessively happy with their lot, and with the house, and with their master. I think it very wrong, Mr. Gilmore, to put about such things. Why, Alonso cannot get another servant to wait on him! That country people believe in such things and can take a sudden whim into their heads—well, it is due to small knowledge of the world and cannot be helped. But that you, a man with pretensions to gentility, should repeat to me this piece of nonsense—it is beyond anything. I will ask you not to spread such a tale—for all the good it may do!—and avoid further damaging my friend’s comfort and position here.”
“He has done that himself, Dr. Danforth, if you will forgive me.” He sighed and turned his face to the sun, as if to gain some strength from it. He is a remarkable sight in a Devon village, to be sure. The planes of his face, and those curls of guinea gold, shining in the afternoon light—he belongs on a frieze in the Parthenon, not standing in shabby gaiters on an English hillside. “You cannot argue with local opinion,” he said.
“And what is local opinion’s opinion?” I allowed the scorn to enter my voice.
“It is like this. After the Villarcas—that is, the old master and his lady—were taken in those shocking and horrible circumstances, it affected this district for some time after. You may be sure the name Rawblood was a watchword for notoriety. But as for Mr. Villarca the younger, there was great sadness for his sake in these parts. Folk were resolved to be kind to him. For he was but a lad, my father says, and a pleasant one, although full of freaks. They see him as a Devon boy, you know. As one of their own. Or rather, they did. And he came to manhood and went to the university and was set to be a doctor, and all seemed well.”
“I have been here in years past,” I said, moved despite myself, “and Rawblood seemed home to him indeed.”
“Yes,” said Henry Gilmore with an inflection I could not place. “I had heard you and he would spend a deal of time together here in those days.
“But then, of a sudden, he abandoned his study. He went off to Italy with barely a word to anyone. And was not seen or heard of for nigh on twenty years! It was a great sadness to those who had seen him grow from boy to man. All the household kept on full pay, mind, as though he were expected any minute. If folk did not know before that the Villarca purse is deep—why, they know it now.
“Then, but a few months ago, there came the word of his return. Late August, that was. You can imagine the hubbub! There was a bustle, and deliveries, and linen aired, and peculiar things in boxes carried to the cellar, and someone set to hack at the brambles on the drive. There was quite a joyful scramble. Rawblood was to be set up again! We were most glad, in Dartmeet and all around. For it is not good to let a house stand empty so long. It makes the stones and the walls strange—mad. And do not tell me that houses have no feelings, all their own.
“Then Mr. Villarca arrived himself. Well. You have seen his face, Dr. Danforth. I do not need to tell you that he is a horror. He is fearsome to look upon. As if his years numbered seventy, not barely above forty. It is not his looks alone; he is wrong. He speaks to people who are not there. He rages and curses in the night, in place of sleep. There is something amiss. The household began to have great misgivings. It is as if a different man sits in his body. Some asked, is it indeed young Mr. Villarca? Or is it an impostor, like in a story, come to take his inheritance?
“Strange things were afoot within the house. It put fright into people. As a natural consequence, they began to recall the happenings that took place all those years ago in his father’s time… Mr. Villarca answered their fears with grim words, or with silence. And the priest did no good; indeed, it seemed to make matters worse. And at last, those who worked at Rawblood took their leave. He is alone again. Perhaps that is how he likes it.
“Now, no terrible things passed in th
at place”—Henry Gilmore waved a hand at Rawblood, which lay below us, snug in the folds of the hill—“when the Dempseys were there, and it was Dempsey House. Some say now that the Villarcas never should have been allowed to come here—although how old Ned thinks he could have prevented them, I do not know—but is there perhaps something to it? When foreigners come here, they bring their own things with them, do they not, that may be strange to us—whether it be a new way of cooking a lamb, or a language, or something else you might not want them to bring.”
I was conscious of the echo of my own thoughts concerning Alonso and his rights to his nation. I replied with more heat than I should have done. “You are very mysterious and like to coax my interest with hints of terrible things, Mr. Gilmore, but you have so far offered me no more than suspicions unworthy of a young gentleman. You have, in short, acquitted yourself no better than a woman, gossiping of indiscretion in a tearoom. You cloak the matter in intrigue and hint at direful conclusions and tell me nothing. Perhaps you wish me to be frightened or impressed, and I can assure you that it is not so—no, no more, sir. I bid you good evening.”
He shrugged and seemed to wish to speak again but thought better of it, slung my cabbages down from Sadie, and bade me a friendly good night. As they went around the hill, Robert was laughing. It sounded evil to my ear.
I went down toward Rawblood, eager, the cabbages jostling in my arms. I had received from this encounter a renewed energy and consciousness of the necessity of what we did here. There was much work awaiting me, and I went to it gladly.
Later
At dinner (pickled onions, pickled gherkins, dried apricots—not good—and a duck roasted with a ravigote sauce—very good), I told Alonso of my meeting in full, unvarnished detail. He whistled a quick indrawn breath and said, “I had not thought to trouble you with this. It presents a strange appearance, I know, and locally, my credit has suffered.”
“You may confide in me with perfect confidence,” I cried. “I sent the fellow about his business, you may be sure—do not fear that I will be taken with his fancies!” Alonso’s pain roused in me much fellow feeling.
“Well, I will. It’s quickly told: The Mystery of the Rawblood Ghost. Not an edifying tale, I fear. It began shortly after my return. There was some murmuring among the servants. A footman had woken in the night and found that he could not breathe, due to a hand over his mouth. Mrs. Hitchens saw something in the pantry. I know not what, but she broke a row of preserves.
“As the days went on, matters worsened—there were cries and running in the night, and the servants were heavy-eyed by day. They trembled at the approach of dark. So I took steps to nip it in the bud. I brought the reverend in from Honiton. I thought, what harm can come of it? And perhaps it will sufficiently allay their fears. He visited the place, threw water about with a fine disregard for my curtains, mumbled some cant words, declared it clean, and left.
“I was wrong. It was a great error. For it lent credence to their fear—by taking counteractive measures, I had approved the existence of it, do you see?
“That very night, one of the housemaids ran from the house, with a deal of noise. She said that a person had been in her chamber. Well, it may have been so; she was well looking, and I suspect that—anyhow. The household turned out, naturally, myself included—such a brouhaha! She stood on the lawn, and perhaps there was some congenital disease in her family, or something had happened to disturb her modesty, or…I know not, but there was a ghastly white in her face, and her eyes started from their sockets so that she rolled her eyes like a spaniel. We stood about her, in a circle of nightcaps and shawls, and she in the center like a sacrifice, her hair down her back and face turned toward the moon, her mouth agape, uttering that frightful noise.”
My friend paused here, and I could see the movement of feeling across the hollow mask of his face. He went on, “Nothing could persuade her to come in or to stop her moaning. And yes, the night was cold, and she took ill from it. I think her wits wandered a little from the fever, for she spoke after in a child’s voice—a high reedy tone that quite chilled the heart—and her mind was overthrown. All she would talk of was the…person in her room. Pale, she said, and with eyes like… Anyhow.” He shook himself. “No, it was not a salubrious or pleasing occurrence, to happen in one’s house! I sent her to Exeter, to Everett’s house there—you understand me.”
I did; it is an asylum that Everett presides over. I nodded a little without expression, to show him my faith in his judgment and that he might continue without recrimination from me.
“And,” he said, “it was not taken kindly by the other servants; they would not then stay. They began to speak of the past happenings in this house, all those years ago…the ‘apparition’ that was seen then. The Rawblood ghost then came into being, in their minds. A white figure, a cold woman who haunts the generations of Villarcas at Rawblood and tears the life from them…
“Charles, it gave me such pain. That the tragedy that took my mother and my father was to be revived; that they were to appropriate my real loss to construct such nonsense, to feed their superstition—it was intolerable. I let them go, and gladly. That those I had counted my friends, who I had known since I was born, would make such a scandal, which they knew must cause me grief… It cut me to the quick. I was angry. I have lived all my life with that horror close behind me—”
I caught his hand in mine and said, “I know.”
“I had not shared this incident with you,” he said, “for it shames me to think on it, that I pandered so—there is no better word!—to their ignorance. And worse, with no result. Is it never to be done, Charles? Never?”
I put my arm about him. He shed a tear, like an ashamed child. It is most unnerving to see Alonso thus; it is like seeing a mountain or a tree cry.
“And this is why,” I said, “you would have me swear not to bring any soul near the house.”
“I will not give them more fodder.”
“I understand,” I said. “I am so sorry for your trouble, my friend. Does Shakes not subscribe to this local antipathy? Does he not fear the specter?”
“No,” said Alonso, thoughtful. “He does not. It would not surprise me to find that he is immune from such things. I find it credible that Shakes defies all natural laws.”
I laughed heartily and raised my glass to him. “Well. I like the way we go on here! I can almost thank the Rawblood ghost for introducing me to so delightful a style of living.” I waved an apricot at him. “I only regret that I should have given Gilmore such a trimming. If he tells of it, it will lend weight to the tale…” Thinking to turn the conversation, I said, “But the history of the Villarcas and your esteemed parents—why, I confess, that does seem to me romance of the best kind, meaning it happened here, in the world, between two people, and not between the pages of some novel.” As soon as the words had left my lips, I regretted them. Alonso has rarely spoken to me of his parents and only once of their deaths.
“The best, you say?” Alonso said heavily. “Do you believe that, my friend, with all that ensued? For myself, I will remain a bachelor as long as I may.”
His temper has not improved over the days. When I had proposed that a housekeeper from Taunton or Exeter could be hired, who might not share the local prejudices, his decided negative was close to violence. His curses, delivered to a young woman who had come to the back door peddling her hedgerow blackberries, were something to hear. If I had not that day determined the source of my “face” at the window, I should have come to know shortly after, by his discourse and his actions, that no flesh-and-blood woman could be in the house. He is in deadly earnest: none but us three shall come near Rawblood.
Though he works as ever with the precision and constancy of an engine, this work takes everything from him. Alonso looks—if I may say so—haunted. His face, as I have said, is a Pompeii; his eyes are filmed over in recent days with some care or feeling
that I cannot fathom.
And yet, and yet…despite this, it seems to me that his cheek has a hint of color, which it did not have when I arrived. And the lines of his face are carved a little less deep. Does he look somewhat improved? Somewhat…younger? I will wait to remark upon it, for I do not wish to torment him with wishful thinking.
Turning his abrupt gaze on me, Alonso said now, “Gilmore has a short memory, for my mother’s family, the Hopewells, were here before the Dempseys… They lost the house, but the Villarcas got it back. Now, tell me, do you not think her a fine figure?”
Puzzled by this erratic speech, I said that I could not venture an opinion, since surely…
“Charles! Tell me! You need not spare my feelings. Do you not admire her looks?”
I began to feel alarm, observing the level of the decanter.
“I am sure she was the best of ladies,” I said. “But she has passed to a better place than this, and perhaps you should reserve discussion of her for a time when the port is not on the table.”
“Port be d--ned. You are unobservant. Truly, have you not noticed that she dines with us every night?” This he said with a peculiarly teasing note that I recalled from the old days; with it came the recollection of how detestable my friend could be when in this mood.
I said, “I am not here for you to make game of me. I do not care for such jokes, and I am persuaded that, after reflection, you will be sorry that you were tempted to speak thus and glad that I would not encourage it.”
“I make only a little game of you, Charles. For I meant only to show you… There she is, you know. I had her put there, so that we may sit together.” He pointed behind him.
I have never had occasion to notice this painting in particular. I doubt I could have described any painting in this house, or any work of art in any house at all, although I must have encountered them. I am not one for the Arts, and folderols, and things of that sort. Music is but an indifferent sound to my ear—I cannot for the life of me distinguish the tuneful from the discordant. The beauty of dance leaves me unmoved. But looking on it—there is something of life that has been lent to this assemblage of canvas and oil.
The Girl from Rawblood Page 10
