The Fringe of Leaves

by Patrick White

  She was only at ease when received into the countryside. On the one hand lay fields divided by timber roughly piled to form barriers rather than fences and divide crops from herds and flocks; on the other, forest which neither invited nor repelled those who might feel tempted to investigate a passive mystery. She thought she might be tempted, but for the present yielded herself to the glare from emerald pastures and delight in the rounded flanks of grazing lambs.

  Presently the road forked and she chose the lesser, its ribbon threaded through the trees fringing a mountainside. It was not long before she was enveloped by sombre forest; the road grew rougher, the light whiter, keener, at such moments when it succeeded in slashing its way through foliage. She became breathless in the course of her climb and undid her bonnet-strings, and shed the intolerable pelisse, and regretted that the soles of her boots offered so little protection from stones.

  At one point a path, or more precisely, a tunnel, invited her to enter. She was walking for the most part over moss, breathing the air of another climate, amongst trees the butts of which were in some cases spongy as cork, in others hard as armour. Clumps of low-growing shrubs were draped with parasite flowers as white and lacy as bridal veils. Fronds of giant ferns caressed her, and she in turn caressed the brown fur which clothed their formal crooks.

  She was so entranced she sat down in a small clearing intending to enjoy her surroundings while resting, in a dappled shade, on the compost of decaying leaves and bark, regardless of any possibility of damp and spiders. Removing the superfluous bonnet and loosening her matted hair, she felt only remotely related to Ellen Roxburgh, or even Ellen Gluyas; she was probably closer to the being her glass could not reveal, nor her powers of perception grasp, but whom she suspected must exist none the less.

  The delicious cool, the only half-repellent smell of rotting vegetation, perhaps some deeper prepossession of her own, all were combining to drug her, at first with mild insidiousness, then with overwhelming insistence. She could have been drifting at the bottom of the sea, in the cove which had awaited the ship’s prow, carved and festive. Then he was bending over her. She put up her hand to touch the incipient stubble on a ruddy cheek. Their plumskin mouths, perfectly matched, received each other, flowing, over-flowing, withdrawing. When she noticed a flaw: his lower lip had a dint in its too pronounced upholstery. Repulsion drowned the attraction she had felt. Tears were falling, warm and sticky, which she realized were not hers. The girl Holly was holding a knife in grief or anger. You cannot frighten me Holly I am not the one you intend to kill. The girl mumbling she will not serve another term it is the potato-eyes she is preparing to nick.

  Mrs Roxburgh awoke all but choked by her dream, her boots protruding foolishly from under the hem of her skirt. The spangled net of sunlight had been raised from the clearing in which she lay, leaving her surrounded by a black and hostile undergrowth. Seizing her bonnet by the strings, and without thinking to brush herself clean of twigs and leaves, she hurried down the tunnel to regain the road. Here too, the sun had withdrawn. Uncontrolled impetus carried her downhill, her ankles twisting on the stones she dislodged, her breath sounding exasperated rather than distressed.

  It was indeed exasperating now that she had reached the cultivated fields and grazing sheep not to be able to piece together a dream which was already becoming indistinct.

  More than exasperating, it was something of a shock to hear the sound of hooves approaching at her back. She hurried on and hoped that the swollen rain-clouds overhead would convince the oncoming rider that there was good reason for her otherwise unnatural pace.

  When the horse was only a few yards distant a man’s voice called, ‘If you would like to try, we could hoist you up, to ride pillion, or on the pommel, if you prefer.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Roxburgh,’ she answered without turning her head. ‘It would be far too awkward.’

  At that moment the horse drew level, and Garnet Roxburgh bent down from the saddle and brushed from her back a few leaves which must have remained clinging there. She could only have looked a fright, her hair in disarray, her bonnet dangling by its strings from her fingers.

  He made no comment apart from, ‘I don’t believe you trust me, Ellen,’ in a tone of voice which only half-suggested he might be mocking.

  ‘I can see no reason why I should not.’ Speech was difficult in her state of breathlessness, and she blushed besides, for she had in fact been wondering whether the mountain road she had taken on her walk was that on which the gig had overturned and Mrs Garnet Roxburgh broke her neck.

  ‘I enjoy walking,’ she informed him, to add something to what was hardly a conversation.

  ‘Do you ride as well?’

  ‘I did. But Mr Roxburgh has forbidden it—since I took a fall.’

  ‘Only one? A man can’t claim to be a horseman till he’s taken at least seven tumbles.’

  She felt foolish in that she was unable to explain that her first had fatal consequences.

  ‘If that old woman my brother would allow it, I have a little black mare which would suit you to perfection. Any lady who has tried her out sings her praises.’

  Mrs Roxburgh blushed again, for her impulse was to ask whether many ladies had tried out the little black mare.

  At this moment they were caught up in a preliminary squall of rain.

  ‘You see,’ he shouted as his horse went into a caracol, ‘you should have accepted my offer!’

  ‘Oh, but we are almost there!’ she gasped, her cheeks slapped by the cold rain, her skirt ballooning as the wind got full possession of it.

  She hurried to reach the shelter of the yard. There the two assigned men were attacking the wood-pile in a frenzy to demonstrate to the master their addiction for work, till such a deluge began, it was only sensible to take refuge with their axes in the barn.

  Mr Austin Roxburgh was still comfortably seated in the library in front of a fire Mrs Brennan had lit against the cold.

  ‘You are wet through,’ he said to his wife with a resignation which suggested that he had expected nothing short of this.

  ‘And you soon will be!’ she rejoined.

  It had not occurred to him to close a window through which the torrents were dashing.

  She kissed his forehead and went to change.

  In the morning Mrs Roxburgh lingered at writing in her journal, a luxury she appreciated increasingly since they had set out on their travels.

  … anoyed with myself for not being able to remember this tantalizing dream. It has become no more than a blurred sensation. Did not mention it to Mr R. because he might find me ridiculous—or irrational.

  While I was changing from my wet cloathes Holly came to my door. Mrs B. has decided it will be one of the girl’s duties to act as Lady’s Maid. Holly had recovered from her black thoughts of the same morning. She was pretty and glossy as before. She wld like to enjoy some fun if I can cure her of her shyness. I gave her my figured poplin and the pair of ear-rings with bunches of garnets set in gilt leaves. H. was overcome, neeled and kissed my hands, I felt her tears on them. She said she had never owned anything so grand. I wld have felt more gratified had I not been sick of that old poplin and had I not thought the ear-rings made me look what Aunt Tite used to call ‘trumpery’. Poor Holly has no means of knowing and looks like some pretty gypsy with bunches of glossy grapes in her ears.

  At dinner Mr G. R. introduced the subject of the black mare. He is a man who will not be put off. My good husband yawned and said I might ride the mare if I felt inclined and she was not a mad-headed runaway. Garnet said he would ride her at the mountain a few times till she was recovered from a spell of unemployment and too much oats. Asked Mr R. as we prepared for bed was he no longer concerned that I might fall. He teased me and said I was less valuable for belonging to him these many years.

  During the night heard sounds overhead as of heavy footsteps, muffled voices, occasional laughter. Mentioned it to Mr R. this morning, who claimed he had heard nothing. This
surprised me as he complanes he is such a poor sleeper. I cld not resist reminding him. He said it is so, he does not get half the sleep he needs, but sometimes goes off into a doze, and whatever I imagined hearing must have occurred while he was in that condition.

  When Mrs B. brought breakfast I returned to the noise I had heard and said I was at first afraid some escaped prisoner or ‘bush-ranger’ had broke in. The woman acted more than usually nervous—said she had been suffering from a toothache in the night and was looking for something to relieve the pain.

  She did not return to collect the dishes but sent the girl who I also questioned. Asked whether the house was haunted, and had I perhaps heard a ghost. Holly’s cheeks looked radiant, but her shyness returned. Said there was no ghost she had ever met. She had tried on her lovely gown on going upstairs, for Mrs Brennan to admire, and the two had been wondering what kind of husband she might get now that she can pass as a lady. A simple guessing-game such as I will never again enjoy!

  After breakfast, after they were dressed, Mr Roxburgh said with an abruptness which startled his wife, ‘How long, Ellen, do you suppose we ought to stay before we can decently escape from “Dulcet”?’

  Mrs Roxburgh felt she had been ambushed. ‘When we came out for you to be with the brother you haven’t seen in years? And Christmas not yet here!’

  ‘Oh, well—yes—yes.’ Mr Roxburgh wagged his head and shuffled.

  Ellen Roxburgh was oppressed by her own glib words and a sensation as of her stays filling with an ampler form than the years she had actually lived with her respected husband could warrant. She recoiled at once from this premonition of a complacent, cosseted middle-age—by which time (if she reached it) the respected husband would more than likely have left her a widow.

  Later in the morning as she sat with her sewing (a hated duty she sometimes prescribed for herself) she heard a thundering outside, and on looking out of the window, caught sight of Garnet Roxburgh on what she took to be her black mare. She was in a lather, nostrils distended pink, from being ‘ridden at the mountain’, Mrs Roxburgh presumed. Evidently the mare was to become one of her more unavoidable prescribed duties.

  A few evenings later she was pouring tea for the gentlemen when her brother-in-law announced without preamble, ‘Your mount is chastened, if you feel any inclination to try her.’

  Austin Roxburgh, who had consented almost cynically to her riding the horse, at once grew anxious. ‘Not alone, Ellen! I would not like you to ride alone. But there is no reason why you should not accompany Garnet when he rides out on whatever business calls him.’ Anyone must have recognized ‘that old woman’ to whom his brother had laughingly referred.

  Mrs Roxburgh gave no definite answer as she stirred the sugar in her tea.

  In the morning, however, she sent the girl to the master to tell him that, if he would not be overly delayed, she thought she would ride out with him that morning.

  That he must be delayed, she knew, for she lingered over dressing, hoping that she might change her mind, or Garnet Roxburgh leave without her.

  Holly, hooking her into the habit, was again in the sulks. ‘Ah,’ she sighed when questioned, and answered as usual, ‘’tis nothing.’

  Then she said, ‘She’s a pretty little horse, and gentle—if you don’t lay whip or spur to her.’

  ‘Oh? Do you know?’

  ‘Mr Roxburgh allowed me to ride her. He taught me. He said I might use her sometimes—as a recreation—when she’s not wanted by anybody else.’

  Mrs Roxburgh was adjusting her hat. Her hand trembled at the prospect of finding herself in the saddle again.

  ‘Is she so much in use?’

  ‘Oh, no. Only by Mrs Aspinall—when she comes.’

  ‘Mrs Aspinall?’

  ‘The doctor’s wife.’

  ‘Is she here often?’

  The girl replied, ‘Not very,’ and held the glass for her lady to see whether she looked trim.

  Mrs Roxburgh might have looked handsome, in her hard hat, from behind the tightly gathered net veil, had she allowed herself to approve. But her thoughts were so far distracted that she even forgot to take leave of her husband.

  In the yard the assigned man who acted as groom stood holding the mare beside a mounting-block. She flashed the white of an eye in the direction of her prospective mistress, but seemed docile enough. Mr Garnet Roxburgh was already mounted on a thickset strawberry roan. He sat with the glimmer of a smile on his face, whether in approval or mild censure it was impossible to tell.

  Their setting forth was sedate enough. After curveting briefly, the mare responded to her rider’s touch, perhaps sensing the hand of experience, for Ellen Gluyas had often bounced bareback for fun on their own hairy Cornish nag en route for serious labours in the fields, before she had ever ridden on more elegant and aimless expeditions on the slopes beyond Cheltenham.

  Mr Garnet Roxburgh might have approved of his companion’s seat. He glanced sideways once or twice, and down at the fall of her bottle-green skirt, without comment, however.

  ‘What is her name?’ Mrs Roxburgh asked, and her voice, she thought, sounded flat enough to match her insipid inquiry.

  He considered it unnecessary to name horses, but some liked to call the mare ‘Merle’. Mrs Roxburgh wondered which of Them it was.

  When they had ridden a little way he suddenly raised his arm, embracing the landscape as it were, with a sweeping, almost passionate gesture. ‘Do you believe you would come across lusher pastures anywhere on earth?’

  “I have not seen everywhere on earth.”

  ‘Oh, come! As dry as my brother. That was a manner of speaking. Out of your experience, I meant.’ He looked at her meaningly.

  There was every reason why he should know that his brother had married her off a farm, so she did not hesitate in her reply. ‘Ours was for the most part poor land—swept by winds from the sea. It could not compare with such luxuriance as this. But for all its poverty, I loved it,’ she added.

  To have humbled her seemed to have appeased him.

  He said quite gently, ‘I did not mean to hurt your feelings.’

  She was not so sure.

  A little farther on a flock of sturdy lambs stood grazing in a field of brilliant clover. She was about to express her delight when Garnet Roxburgh, who had not at first noticed the lambs, caught sight of them, and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘God sod the bastard shepherds! But what can you expect of the scrapings from the streets of Dublin and London?’

  There was no sign of any shepherd to prevent the flock pushing through a gap in a fence roughly built of logs. Garnet Roxburgh spurred forward, wheeled the lambs, and soon had them scampering back through the break. After which, he jumped down, and started to repair the collapsed fence by dragging three or four logs into place. Although not of the heaviest, they were awkward in shape and jagged where the branches had been lopped. As she rode up to rejoin him, she noticed the blood trickling from the back of one of his hands. His shirt was wet from his exertion and his face closed in anger.

  She decided not to disturb what would have been silence except for his panting and a coughing from the now stationary lambs.

  Still silent, Garnet Roxburgh re-mounted, and they made, purposefully it seemed, towards a patch of thinned-out scrub on a near-by rise. Here she saw a hut had been built out of its grey, natural surroundings from which it was all but indistinguishable.

  The master started shouting again, and two slaves came tumbling out from under the thatch of leaves. ‘By Ghost,’ he cursed, ‘if those lambs bloat you’ll regret it! Do you suppose I employ you to grog yourselves stupid before the sun is properly up? If I wasn’t such a soft-hearted noodle I’d set up my own private triangle and see my own justice done. Now, go to it!’

  As the two shepherds, bleary from sleep and spirits, stumbled past in the direction of their flock, Mrs Roxburgh detected the authentic blast of rum. She might have been more distressed by memories if the present situation had disgusted
her less. She could not sympathize with the neglectful and unsavoury ‘miscreants’, but was sickened by the uncontrolled passion of their master, who let fly at their shoulders with his whip before they were out of range.

  His rage abating somewhat, they continued their ride, though without any definite aim, she felt. Garnet Roxburgh had withdrawn to brood amongst his thoughts.

  In the circumstances she was relieved to notice flies gathering where the blood had oozed from the gash on the back of his hand ‘Have you a clean handkerchief?’ she asked. ‘I’ll bind up the wound. My own handkerchief is too small to be of any use.’

  He said no he had not, and proceeded to suck the wound with such concentration she thought she recognized more than a trace of his brother’s hypochondria.

  Until dropping his hand to the pommel of his saddle he remarked in what was intended as a lighter tone, ‘You will not have a good opinion of me, Ellen.’

  She was about to protest, against her true feelings, when he began afresh, ‘You have never, I think, found me in the least congenial.’ He laughed. ‘You had decided against me long before we had so much as met.’

  His charges were the more intolerable for being wholly true.

  The black mare whinged and jumped on experiencing her rider’s whip. ‘You are making such false accusations,’ Mrs Roxburgh lied unconvincingly.