by Syrie James
He awoke and lay trembling beside me. “My God,” he cried, his voice hoarse and filled with terror, “that horrible bag! Will I never forget?”
I knew better than to ask what “horrible bag” he was talking about. Instead, I put my arms around him and said soothingly, “It was not real, dearest. But I am here, and I am real. Hold me.” I felt Jonathan’s body tremble as he held me tightly and buried his face in my shoulder.
“Mina. Dearest Mina. Promise me you will always love me, and that you will never leave me.”
“I will always love you, my darling, and I will never leave you,” I replied, kissing him.
It took me a long while to coax him into a relaxed state, so that we could both fall back to sleep.
WE SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS SETTLING IN. ALTHOUGH JONATHAN continued to have nightmares, he seemed to be himself by day. I had breakfast with him and Mr. Hawkins every morning, and they both came home for luncheon. Since Mr. Hawkins had not been feeling well of late, he had not taken on any new work in quite some time. Even so, they were busy at the office all day, for Jonathan had been away a long time, and as a new partner in the firm, he had much to learn.
While the men were gone, I took time to become acquainted with the housekeeping staff. I spoke with the cook about meal-planning—a subject of which I had had little experience. I unpacked the trunk I had sent on from Whitby, which contained the rest of my clothes, my books, and my typewriter. I had two new dresses made, and I took some delightful walks around Exeter and the near-by cathedral close.
Sometimes on my solitary walks, or while I was unpacking, or ironing, or trying to concentrate on a book, I found myself humming Tales from the Vienna Woods, the tune that Mr. Wagner and I had danced to on that first evening at the pavilion. I would catch myself, as with an involuntary blush, I recalled the nights I had so recklessly rushed off to meet him there and the other times we had spent together. The memories caused my heart to flutter. Where was Mr. Wagner now? I wondered. Had he bought property in England? Did he decide to stay in the country, or did he return to Austria? I missed the talks we used to have, and I found myself conducting long, imaginary conversations with him in my mind.
I could not deny that I missed him. Those ten days in Whitby, after Mr. Wagner and I met, had been one of the most exciting times of my life. I knew that my behaviour there had been improper; but I did not regret any of it. It was in the past; it was over; but the memories were there for me to bring out and smile at whenever I chose, before putting them safely away where they belonged.
I adored living in Mr. Hawkins’s beautiful old house. From the windows in our bedroom and the drawing-room, I could see the rows of great, leafy elms standing out majestically against the old yellow stone of the cathedral. With the windows open, I could hear the cathedral bells toll the hours, and the delightful cawing and chattering of the rooks overhead cheered me all day long.
In short order, though, I became restless. I had enjoyed my leisure time in Whitby, when my days had held no greater responsibilities than the decisions of where and how long to walk, what time to dine, and which books to read. However, I was on holiday no longer. I was accustomed to the regimented schedule of a school-teacher. I asked Jonathan one morning if I might help with his work, or if there was anything that he needed transcribed on the typewriter; but he said no, not at present.
I hungered for something meaningful to do. I longed for my days to have more import, as well as some impact on others. Mr. Wagner’s words came back to haunt me: “I would think that to-day’s New Woman would give great thought to what she wants after marriage, and not just to what society dictates, or what her husband expects.”
What was a woman to do, I wondered, if she found the role of dutiful wife and home-maker insufficiently fulfilling?
After Mr. Hawkins retired that evening, as Jonathan and I were reading and working by the fire in our sitting-room, I said:
“Jonathan: there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
“What is it, dear?” he said, without glancing up from the legal documents he was reviewing.
“Mr. Hawkins has a very fine instrument down-stairs. What would you think if I gave piano lessons a few hours a week?”
Jonathan looked up from his papers now in surprise. “Piano lessons? Are you joking?”
“I am perfectly serious. I used to teach music at school. I miss my students, and I miss teaching. It would give me something useful to do with my time.”
“Mina,” he replied patiently, “it is understandable that you miss school. You were at that institution for more than half of your life. But these feelings will pass. I am certain that, in time, you will find plenty of things with which to occupy yourself.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I don’t know. What do other new brides do?”
“I suppose they spend their time decorating and furnishing their new house. But this house is already beautifully decorated and fully furnished—and in any case, it is still Mr. Hawkins’s house, not ours.”
“Are you not busy overseeing the staff?”
“The staff runs the house very efficiently without my interference.”
“Then find a women’s group to join. Or take up needlework. You used to enjoy that, did you not?”
“Needlework?” I repeated with a grimace. “I may have taught girls how to embroider at school, but I never liked it. It is only something women do when they have nothing better to do. I hoped you might require my help at the office, but as it seems you do not—”
“I can see that you are distressed about this, Mina. But we have only been married a few weeks, and in Exeter but a few days. Give yourself a chance to settle in and become accustomed to our new life here. One day, if we are blessed with children, you will have plenty to do, and you will not be giving any thought to teaching other people’s children or working in my office.”
“But Jonathan, that is in the future. I am talking about my life now.”
“And now, you are a married woman. Married women do not work outside the home. That sort of thing is just not done.”
“I understand your feelings on this matter, dear. I am only asking to teach a few hours a week, inside the home. It would make me very happy.”
He slapped his papers down on a near-by table and glowered at me impatiently. “I make a perfectly respectable living, Mina. What would people think if you started teaching? That I was unable to provide for us? That I required your help to make ends meet? That would be mortifying—particularly when we are living here, at no real expense!”
“Do you really care so much what people would think, Jonathan?” The moment the phrase left my mouth, I recognised its source: Mr. Wagner had asked me the very same thing, the morning before our boat ride.
“Yes, I care very much!” Jonathan cried. “I am a partner in Hawkins and Harker now. I meet with new clients every day. I must prove myself worthy of the responsibilities which have been bestowed on me. Should I—should we—make any mis-steps, people will talk, and it will affect the business!”
I felt bad now. Jonathan had worked himself up into such a state of anxiety that I feared it might bring on a relapse of his former condition. “I am sorry,” I said quickly. “I had not thought of it affecting your business. We will, of course, do as you think best.”
THAT NIGHT, I HAD A STRANGE DREAM ABOUT LUCY.
I had been worried about her for quite some time. I had written to Lucy from Buda-Pesth, and had sent another note informing her that we would soon be on our way home. However, despite Lucy’s promise to correspond, I had not heard from her since the day I left Whitby—and she had been unwell at the time. I had told myself not to be concerned; after all, she had her mother and Arthur to watch over her. I had been out of the country for many weeks, and as Lucy herself had so often reminded me, mail does often go astray, particularly when it is sent overseas. Still, I had a vague feeling that something was very wrong.
My dream only increased m
y worries. In the dream, I looked up from my bed to find the blinds open on our French doors and a ghostly figure peering in at me through the darkness. It was Lucy! She was standing out on the balcony, clad only in her white nightdress, with her raven hair tumbling about her. She smiled and beckoned to me with a finger. I rose, opened the doors, and stepped outside.
Suddenly, the landscape changed. I was not on my balcony, but back at Whitby, at the base of the steps to the East Cliff. Lucy laughed merrily, turned, and ran up the stairs. I knew, somehow, that she was running into danger; that the terrifying, dark figure with the red eyes was awaiting her atop the cliff.
“Stop, Lucy! Stop!” I called after her, but she paid no heed.
I raced after Lucy, but she remained well ahead of me. The harder I ran, the longer the flight of steps became, stretching endlessly upwards and upwards until I thought they would never end. Suddenly, another figure appeared beside me: it was Lucy’s tall, handsome, curly-haired fiancé, Arthur Holmwood.
“Lucy!” he shouted. “Where are you going?”
“Arthur? What are you doing here?” Lucy replied, pausing briefly to look back at him with a wanton and contemptuous smile. “Go home, Arthur. It is too late. You are not wanted any more.” She turned and ran on.
Mr. Holmwood’s face fell. “Lucy!” he uttered in the most woe-begone of voices. “Darling! Come back!”
“She does not know what she is saying, Mr. Holmwood. She is walking in her sleep. We must stop her!”
Mr. Holmwood and I dashed up the stairs together, at last arriving at the summit, to find Lucy standing not twenty feet away with her back to us. We hurried up behind her. She began to laugh—a strange, eerie sound, like the tinkling of glass when struck—a laugh that sent a chill up my spine. I reached out to touch her shoulder. To my horror, as Lucy turned around to face us, her countenance distorted into something demon-like and full of rage. Her eyes were blazing red orbs which seemed to throw out sparks of hell-fire, and her brow was as wrinkled as the coils of Medusa’s snake. Clawing at us through the air, she let out a fierce, diabolical hiss, like a panther or cobra about to strike.
I snapped awake in terror, clutching at the bed-clothes, and stifling the urge to scream. Oh! Horrid, horrid dream! Why did my unconscious mind torment me with such an absurd, frightening vision? What on earth could have provoked it?
Even long after waking, the nightmare was difficult to banish from my thoughts. I could not get over the notion that something was very wrong with Lucy. Determined to re-establish contact with her, I sat down that very morning and wrote a long letter, apprising Lucy of our return to Exeter and all the latest news. No sooner had I posted it, than a letter arrived from Lucy herself.
I caught up the envelope with relief, smiling at the sight of Lucy’s familiar scrawl. My relief was mitigated, however, when I noticed that her letter had been postmarked a month previously—a few days after my departure from Whitby—and that it had originally been sent to Buda-Pesth, then forwarded here. I took out the two folded sheets within and read them avidly. Lucy said she was feeling fine and fit again—that she had “an appetite like a cormorant” (a large, voracious seabird), was sleeping well, and had quite given up walking in her sleep. Arthur was with her; they were rowing, riding, and playing tennis; even her mother was feeling better.
The letter briefly raised my spirits—until I read the postscript:
“P.P.S.—We are to be married on 28 September.”
I glanced at the calendar. It was now the 18th of September! Lucy’s letter, I reminded myself, was very old indeed. Was Lucy truly to be married only ten days hence? If so, why had I not received an invitation? She knew how to reach me in Exeter. If I was to be Lucy’s maid of honour, surely I should have heard from her again by now, with the details of the ceremony and reception. I knew that Lucy and her mother had planned to return to Hillingham, their home in London, for the last week of August. Were they in fact in London now? Could it be that Lucy had become ill again?
That same evening, a great calamity occurred which temporarily pushed all thoughts of Lucy and her wedding from my mind.
SEVEN
IT ALL HAPPENED SO SUDDENLY. SHORTLY BEFORE DINNER, Mr. Hawkins said he had a bad headache, and begged to be excused. Jonathan and I kissed him good-night, and he retired early. Later, as my husband and I were preparing for bed ourselves, we heard a scream from Mr. Hawkins’s room. We ran into the hall and found the maid sobbing in Mr. Hawkins’s doorway.
“I brung the master ’is bed-time medicine, like always, but the poor old gentleman’s lying there as cold as ice, and ’e won’t wake up!”
The doctor said it was probably an aneurism in his brain, and that it had killed him instantly. Oh! Such a kind gentleman—admired by all for his good temper and generous nature—and now he was gone! Mr. Hawkins’s unexpected death was a severe blow to everyone in the household. We heard the staff crying all the next day as Jonathan and I huddled in the drawing-room together, shedding our own stunned tears.
“It is so unfair,” I said sorrowfully. “I thought to enjoy Mr. Hawkins’s company for many years to come.”
“As did I,” Jonathan replied, wiping his sad eyes with a nervous hand. “How am I to get on without him, Mina? I relied on him for so many things. All my life, he was my father, my mentor, and my friend. He has left me a fortune, which to people of our modest upbringing is wealth beyond dreams—and you know I am grateful. But at the same time—”
“At the same time, what, dearest?”
“I left England in April as a newly promoted solicitor, and now, suddenly, the entire firm is in my hands. I do not know if I can handle such an immense responsibility.”
“You can handle it, my dearest,” I said, taking his hand. “Mr. Hawkins would not have made you a partner if he did not feel you were worthy of the title. He believed in you. I believe in you. Now all you need to do is to believe in yourself and take one day at a time.”
Mr. Hawkins had left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father, at a cemetery not far from central London. Accordingly, Jonathan made all the necessary arrangements. I wrote to Lucy, telling her our sad news. We took the train up to town on the 21st of September, arriving very late. The funeral was held the next morning. I wore my best black dress, the same one I had worn on my wedding-day, and Jonathan had a new black suit quickly made. Since Mr. Hawkins had no relations at all, Jonathan was the chief mourner. There were only a handful of other people there besides ourselves and the servants.
As Jonathan and I stood hand in hand during the simple, grave-side service, tearfully saying our last good-byes to the man we felt was our best and dearest friend, I suddenly felt wistful for Jonathan’s departed mother, whom I had also loved, and for the parents I had never known.
“Jonathan,” I said, after the service was over and the few attendees had gone, “do you realise that the last time we were in London together, it was also for a funeral?”
He nodded sadly. “I was thinking about Mother myself.”
“I used to love visiting her at the orphanage. She was always in such good spirits, and the way she could cook up a meal from nothing, in no time!”
“The orphanage is only about a mile away,” Jonathan pointed out. Neither of us had been there for several years, since his mother retired. “Would you like to visit the place, for old time’s sake?”
I admitted that I would. We covered the distance in half an hour. As we stood outside the tall, aging building, regarding the flight of worn stone steps leading up to the front door, I could not help but think of the pitiful circumstances of my own arrival there some one-and-twenty years before.
“Come on,” Jonathan said, smiling for the first time that day, “let us go in and say hello to our old friend the administrator, Mr. Bradley Howell.”
When we rang the bell and were admitted inside, however, we learned that the establishment was under new management. In fact, there were very few people there whom we reco
gnised; and of course, all the children we had known while living under that roof had all grown up and moved on long ago. When we explained who we were and asked if we might take a quick look round, permission was granted.
We poked our heads into the kitchen, one of our favourite spots to congregate when Jonathan’s mother ran the ship; but we did not know a soul, and as the staff was in the midst of serving luncheon, we hurried on.
“It feels so odd,” I whispered to Jonathan, as we slowly made our way along the familiar, dark corridor on the ground floor, “to be back in these same old halls and to find myself a stranger.”
He nodded. “I spent far more time down here with you and the other children than I did in our rooms upstairs with Mother.”
“Do you remember the time we stole all the bonbons from Mr. Howell’s desk, and then hid in the cupboard under the stairs and devoured every single one of them?” I asked.
“I was so sick, I could not look at another sweet for months!”
We shared a few additional memories of antics we had got up to in our youth, which made us laugh. As we passed by the dining-hall, we heard the loud hum of conversation from within, amidst a steady clatter of forks and spoons. We took turns peeking in through the small window in the door, where I caught sight of fifty or more children seated at long tables, eating their noonday meal. Seeing their pale little faces and their assortment of ill-fitting garments reminded me of myself at that age, and gave me a little pang.
Suddenly a small boy, perhaps eight years old, dashed up the passage with a flustered expression, aiming for the dining-hall door. As Jonathan and I stood aside to let him pass, he paused and glanced up at us with wide eyes. “Are you here to adopt somebody?” he asked hopefully.
“Sorry, young man,” Jonathan said kindly. “We are just visiting. We used to live here ourselves as children.”
