Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  "Did he—did he take advantage of you in any way? You know what I mean—be honest now. If he did he'll marry you for sure, no matter what his prospects. I'll keep no despoiled daughter under my roof."

  "No, father, no. I assure you he did nothing, nothing at all. I should never allow such conduct—from him," I cried out in anguish lest my schemes of ridding myself of an unwanted suitor should rebound on me so disastrously.

  "Well, thank God for that at least. I've no wish to be saddled with a worthless son-in-law who like as not would lean on me for support. Let his own father take care of that. You can do better than Harrington."

  "Yes, father, I'm quite sure I can," I replied fervently.

  "And now the boy is dead you are relieved of any further obligation to the Bladens. I can see no further need for you to go over to Charteris. I never liked you being there at any time, but especially now Bladen is loosened from his ties, it could cause talk. Stay close to home in future. Now go to bed."

  I left, fatigued yet relieved and unperturbed. Darius, I knew, would come for me.

  XVI

  But Darius did not come, not the next day, nor the day after that. In fact I saw nothing of him until the funeral, which was delayed because he was ill. I longed to go to him, to seek comfort by sharing with him my abysmal sorrow, but I did not. I could not risk father's displeasure at a time when all depended on his acceptance of Darius, Whig though he be.

  St. Mary's was filled, as it had been on the day Darius married, but the congregation differed from that fashionable throng, the gentry being outnumbered by tenants and vil­lagers who had long known and served the family at Charteris. Tears fell on weathered, gorged and smooth red cheeks alike. The death of a child must inevitably cause greater pain than that of one who has lived threescore and ten, yet those tears were for that particular child and for that particular parent in sympathy with his grief.

  Only his back, tall and gaunt, clad in deepest mourning as he sat alone in the family pew, was visible to me. I knelt firmly on the cushion beneath me, engrossed in the needle­work design of intertwined grape leaves I had worked, to over­come my overwhelming urge to run to him.

  Our eyes met for a moment as we followed the tiny white coffin to that solitary hollow awaiting it in the churchyard. His face was thin, wan and troubled as his grey eyes unsmilingly met mine. He nodded in recognition, nothing more, then turned to those villagers paying their respects and delivering condolences in simple, sincere and heartfelt phrases which I knew he would treasure a thousand times more than Mr. Lin­nell's loquacious eulogy.

  "In the midst of life we are in death," the pastor intoned at the graveside. So it had been that night, in the midst of death we had been in life. Did he think of that also? I looked in his direction, but Netty moved in front of me and I was unable to see him without craning my neck.

  "We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life."

  Though I had been with him when he died, it was only with the first sprinkling of earth, dark, stark, somehow obscene as it fell on the white coffin, that I frankly acknowledged to myself the permanence of Crumpet's death. I would never see him again. I would never hear him laugh, or say my name. He would never run to me for comfort or listen to my stories.

  The lump, lodged in my throat throughout the service, quivered to allow a deep sob to escape from my lips. Darius turned in my direction—our eyes met and I knew that he, too, was at that moment facing that same devastating, irrevocable truth. He was pale, terribly pale, though perhaps his pallor was enhanced by the unmitigated black of his mourning coat, linen, handkerchief and crepe hatband.

  I had to talk to him. The occasion must present itself. Father had raised the matter of my departure for Salisbury for my belated coming out. He was anxious that I leave as soon as possible because of my implied escapade with Arthur Har­rington. Surely Darius must want to speak to me as desper­ately as I wished to speak to him.

  The day was grey as we left St. Mary's. The bright sun had vanished behind a bank of clouds. Even the song of the birds seemed to echo a dirge. Father broke away to speak to Darius while the rest of us stood back like so many hovering crows. He must speak to me. He must. My ears strained to hear what passed between them; first father's dutiful expres­sions on his bereavement, followed by Darius's thanks and his murmured appreciation of the friendship and devotion I had shown to all his family, but most particularly to his son. It was an expression of gratitude, nothing more. It was certainly not what I wanted to hear.

  "I'm glad Alexandra has made herself useful," I heard father say. "She is sad, very sad about the boy's death. I am arranging for her to go to Salisbury for a change of scene."

  "I'm glad of that. I myself leave very soon. It may be some time before I return."

  My heart sank at the words—no protest over my going, nothing. But surely he must say something. I hung back as father motioned us to leave and Darius came over to me and took me aside, out of earshot of the others.

  "Alexandra, there is something I must ask you, something I must know. It has been on my mind, yet I scarcely know how to put it into words . . ."

  "Oh, Darius, you have been ill. I've wanted to talk to you so. It was hard for me to stay away." I wanted so much to hold him, to have him hold me, that it was almost unbearable.

  "I know, Alex, how hard all of this has been for you. I could never bear to inflict pain upon you of all people, yet there is something I must ask, yet for the life of me I don't know how to do it." He twisted his beaver hat between his hands, making the long crepe band dance and sway at the motion. "The night that John died . . . did I . . . did anything happen?"

  I looked at him in puzzlement. What did he mean? Surely he must know what had happened.

  "I have been ill, quite ill; delirious, in fact. The doctor tells me it is not unusual at such times. When faced with those things we do not wish to accept, we block them from our minds, yet they persist to become intermingled with the un­real, making it impossible to tell one from another."

  His eyes were dark and so obviously troubled as he looked into mine, I could not bear it. He had made love to me, yet he did not wish to believe it, I thought bitterly. I dropped my eyes to the dancing motion of his hatband, unable to bear his gaze.

  "Alex, you must be honest with me. I believe I may have wronged you, acted in some unforgiveable manner towards you—you of all people, whom I would never wish to harm. If it is not so, if what I think is merely a nightmare, please remove this further misery from my mind. Yet if I did—if I did hurt you in any way, I must make amends to you. Tell me if there is anything I must know."

  I could not reply. I knew not how to. The lump returned to my throat, making it impossible to speak even if I had wished to, but I did not. I had nothing to say.

  I shook my head silently, wretchedly, hopelessly.

  When at last I raised my eyes to his it was to see such unmitigated relief on his face that I believed he must have been in mortal dread of being forced to offer for me. That look of relief lowered my already abysmally low spirits.

  "I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know it was a nightmare. You have taken such a load from my mind, Alex, for you are dearer to me than my sisters. I would never wish harm to come to you, least of all from me."

  I would say nothing. I could say nothing. My heart was cold within. I longed to cry out to him, but of course I did not. When I spoke at last, my words were barely audible.

  "You said you are leaving soon."

  "Yes, I leave tomorrow."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To Italy."

  "So far! How long will you be gone?"

  "I don't know. I just don't know. At the moment I wish it would be forever."

  He cared nothing for me if he wished never to come back. There was nothing more to be said. I held out my hand.

  "I must go now. Father will wonder where I am. Good�
�bye, Darius. My thoughts go with you."

  He took my hand between his. "I wish you everything that you wish yourself, Alex. I can wish you no more."

  "Do you, I wonder." I saw Thomas beckoning to me, and before Darius could reply, I said again, "Good-bye," and was gone, past the newly covered grave, past the tombstones bear­ing the names of Cox-Nevilles who had preceded me. At that moment I longed desperately to be among them, in the quiet and peace of the tomb where I would feel nothing, care for no one. I belonged there, for my life seemed to be over.

  XVII

  I was listless. I went through my daily tasks as though in a trance, and then I sat doing nothing, nothing at all. There was nothing I wanted to do, nothing mattered anymore. I had nowhere to go. There was no one I wanted to see. Everyone in the world whom I loved was gone from me. I was bereft. Only one thought kept me alive in those days immediately after the funeral, one thought that persisted during those endlessly long days and nights. My body was benumbed, torpid, yet still it might hold life. Nothing could alter the irreversible truth that Crumpet was dead, but Darius might still have a child, his child and mine.

  At night I lay in my narrow bed, my hands resting upon that region from which a child must come, wondering, won­dering. I prayed that I carried his seed, yet if it were so, I had no idea what I would do. Go to Italy to find him, perhaps, to throw myself at his feet? Yet if he should not want me, what then? Or if he married me, would it be only from a sense of duty? I did not know, but I knew I wanted his child more than I had ever wanted anything. One night as I tossed and turned, it occurred to me that perhaps Darius had not gone away on his own; perhaps she was with him. Suppose he had turned to her for solace, suppose—suppose he had married her. I sat bolt upright, horrified at the thought. Quickly I rose and knelt by the side of the bed to pray that it might not be so, but then I remembered my other unanswered prayers. It was best that I not tell God what to do. What would be, would be.

  What would be, was. Before the month was out I saw that with its usual monotonous regularity my little friend, to use mother's phrase, had come. No friend this. I cried at the first show and railed at fate as the show of blood gave evidence I was not with child; I sobbed as its continued flow left me empty, lifeless. Crumpet was gone; there would be no other on whom to lavish the love and affection I craved to give.

  Mother had never before seen me so overcome by my monthly course. She did not, of course, mention it to father beyond hoping that the change of air in Salisbury would re­vive my spirits. Father, I suppose in an effort to hearten me, spoke repeatedly of my coming out. It seemed to me ridiculous at twenty, having already seen so much of life, to be intro­duced officially to society, yet when the time came I was glad to leave Linbury with all its associations.

  Travelling to Salisbury from Linbury, though both were in Wiltshire, was in many ways like travelling to another county, for we of the northern part knew as little of the south as we did of Kent or Cornwall. We crossed the lonely, deserted plains close to Amesbury, and I remembered that Sydney Smith had told me he had been a curate there after ordina­tion, a pretty feature in a plain face, he called it. At Ames-bury, too, I was reminded again of the romance of Queen Guinevere, for it was there, in the abbey, that she had ended her days as a nun; there Sir Launcelot had sought her out to tell her of the death of her king and of his own decision to become a monk in Glastonbury. Perhaps I, too, should become a nun, I thought dismally, though the thought of being mar­ried to the church had little appeal to me. I was sure God wanted no unwilling brides. I would remain a spinster.

  As we neared Salisbury, the hill of Old Sarum loomed on the horizon. It was a notorious burgage borough. I had often heard Darius and his father speak of it as one of the prime examples of the inequities of our system of representation, for it was owned by the Earl of Caledon, who personally selected and sent up two members of Parliament at each general elec­tion.

  In the distance I discerned the outline of Salisbury's great cathedral, with the sun reflecting on its narrow, gothic win­dows. It was imposing in proportion even from afar, and its grandeur grew with every passing mile, providing my eye with a harmony of grey stone, green foliage surrounding it, blue sky and golden sun beyond. Salisbury could not be without merit, I decided, centred as it was by such a magnificent edifice.

  The quiet cathedral town was dominated by the society of the close that. surrounded the cathedral, in which Aunt Maud's house was situated. It was a tall house, angular and imposing, very much like Aunt Maud herself, and it domi­nated the houses surrounding it very much in the way Aunt Maud dominated the blending of lay and clerical people around her. Under other circumstances I might have found the round of provincial social activities—a canter on the downs in the morning, croquet on the lawns in the afternoon, calls, tea parties and an occasional assembly or ball—pleasant, even relaxing, but from the beginning Aunt Maud, with the frank­ness Cassy had found so intimidating, let me know the inten­tion of my visit was more than recreational.

  She looked me over critically from head to toe on my arrival. "You'll do," she pronounced. "But not those clothes. Didn't my brother get you a new wardrobe?"

  I showed her the two dresses I had had Mrs. Birdsock make for me. I had deliberately chosen them to show myself to least advantage. Even the Linbury seamstress had protested at my choice, and I had packed them away before mother could see them.

  "Pink!" Aunt Maud sniffed. "You can't wear pink, at least not that pink, not with your hair. And they look like sacks, no fit to them at all. Here you are with a shape worth setting off and you've nothing to show it in, while Cassandra, on the other hand, had enough trouble trying to hide hers. She was lucky to find a husband. I told my brother so when he wrote to me of her marriage."

  I held back the taunt which rose to my lips on the subject of Mr. Pomeroy, but I suppose she read it in my face.

  "This Mr. Ponsonby-"

  "Pomeroy."

  "Pomeroy, Ponsonby, what difference does it make. The fact of it is that he has taken Cassandra, with very little charm and very little money, either, from what my brother tells me. She's a lucky young woman, and I want you to remember that. You may have an attractive face and a pleasing figure-though not in those things—but you've little enough else to offer, so don't get high and mighty about whom you'll have or not have."

  She gave me implicit instructions on whom to encourage, what subjects I should discuss and matters I should avoid for fear of controversy.

  "Nothing puts a man off more than a woman with views of her own."

  She instructed me to be pleasing without being obtrusive, and she hoped I would behave more prettily than Cassy, who had been so painfully shy and retiring that people simply for­got she was there.

  "I shall write to my brother immediately to send money so that we can purchase something more suitable for you. He can't expect to get his girls off looking like perfect dowds."

  "You take this marriage market seriously," I commented.

  "I do. And you had better also if you know what's good for you. You're not here for your health, you know. That's all there is in life for a girl—a good match. You might as well make the best one you can."

  "But you didn't marry," I pointed out.

  "You're a saucy one!" Her sharp eyes challenged me. "Well, it's all right for you to speak your mind to me, but mind you don't do it outside. No, I didn't marry. I was left well provided for. I saw to that, much to your father's dis­pleasure. But you, my girl, have no such resource and don't forget it."

  I smiled. We had taken each other's measure, and while I had not won, neither had I lost.

  I didn't mind the croquet with earnest curates, nor the teas with worthy dowagers, but the balls and assemblies were dreary. My attention constantly wandered from my partners' polite conversations of sermons and canticles to the warm climes of the country of orange blossom and bougainvillea. I haunted the circulating library and revelled in Byron's poems written in exile in Italy. It was th
ere that, for the first time I saw my own Sum of Glory in print between boards. On an impulse I took it down for Aunt Maud to read, and, as I laid down my coins for the loan I longed to announce that the book was mine, that I was the author, but my aunt was well known there—she would have learned of it and told father. No, my triumph, must, of necessity, be a personal, a lonely affair. Aunt Maud read my book without putting it aside to comment as was her usual practice. Occasionally she sniffed, whether in disgust or dismay I could not tell, while I paged through Susan Ferrier's fashionable novel, Marriage, and waited for her to speak. At last, curiosity forced to me to ask her what she thought of it.

  "Not bad—quite convincing in fact. It's nice to find a spirited heroine for a change instead of these insipid creatures one finds so often in Maria Edgeworth or Hannah More. When you return it find out whether this—" she turned to the title page for a name"—this lady has written anything else."

  I was absurdly pleased as much by her manner of reading as by her words. I could have told her that the author's second work was even then in the publisher's hands. That she very much hoped it would see print. But I didn't; I merely replied with civility that I would enquire when next at the library.

  The only time I was on my own was in the early after­noon, just after luncheon, when Aunt Maud took her nap. It was then I began writing again, poetry to soothe my troubled breast, sonnets and odes, ambitious undertakings requiring all my powers of creation. I was filled with grief and emptiness at the death of the child I had held most dear; with wonder at a night of love; with bitterness at my state; bereft of child and lover; and it was through words and ideas which flowed into my mind and from my pen, in simile and metaphor, in octaves and sestets, in pentameter and hexameter that I began to live again.