Here Comes a Candle

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Fatal to give in now. She stooped and swung Sarah up into her arms. “My father had a game he played with me too.” She began to sing: “Ride a cock horse/To Banbury Cross,” swinging Sarah in her arms in time to the music. Sarah struggled for a minute, wildly, then just as suddenly burst into a shriek of laughter that Kate found almost as disconcerting as her previous resistance. But never mind, they were halfway upstairs.

  In Sarah’s room, she delved in closets and drawers, to find what struck her as an immense and unsuitable wardrobe for a child so young. Hard to imagine wayward little Sarah dressed up in these frilled and flounced muslins. The checked gingham she was wearing seemed eminently more suitable, and Kate found its twin lying in a drawer. But Sarah stamped her foot, her lip trembling.

  “You don’t like it, Sarah? Well, pick one you do like.” At once, the child dug to the very bottom of the drawer and brought out a well-worn dotted muslin.

  “That one? Do you think it’s big enough for you? Let’s try it anyway.” She had got used now to the fact that Sarah never answered her, and was already suiting the action to the word. The dress was a tight fit, but not, she thought, actually an uncomfortable one. At any rate, Sarah was obviously pleased, taking a few almost dancing steps across the room, skimpy skirts held out. Kate half expected her to run to the looking glass, but when she led her there, the child showed no interest, merely pulling Kate out of the room and downstairs again. Outside, the sun was now shining brilliantly with all the warm promise of early summer. Kate held back for a moment. “Let’s have a picnic, Sarah.” After all, she must be hungry. And then, when a mutinous look and a further tug of the hand suggested that here was a word Sarah did not understand: “We’ll get some cake or something from Mrs. Peters and take it out in the garden. Where’s the kitchen, Sarah?”

  The child stood stock still, puzzled, wary, but luckily at this moment Mrs. Peters appeared from a door halfway down the hall, and Kate explained what she wanted.

  “A picnic? I don’t see why not. I forgot to tell you, miss, that Mr. Jonathan left a message. Just to say he was sorry not to see you before he left, but he’d have to be at the mill all day. He mostly lunches there. He looks forward to seeing you at dinner, he says.”

  “And that’s?”

  “Late. Seven o’clock, if you’ll believe it. It’s an idea Mr. Jonathan picked up in foreign parts. Well, I reckon it does fit in well with his business.” It was the grudging approval of an old retainer.

  “You’ve been with Mr. Jonathan a long time?”

  “Just about forever, I reckon. And his father before him—oh, I’ve seen some times...”

  “And Job?” She had been wondering where the old colored man had got to this morning.

  She snorted. “Oh, he’s just a newcomer. Mr. Jonathan brought him back one year he was at Harvard. He’d been down to Washington with a friend of his for his Christmas vacation. I guess they went down into Virginia to one of those slave auctions they have there, and Mr. Jonathan just couldn’t bear it. I know there was ructions when he got home, on account of all the money he’d spent on Job—and only to free him, of course. Though I reckon Job earns his keep at that. He’s a powerful fine coachman and never had a spill yet. And waits at table when there’s company, and valets Mr. Jonathan ... We don’t have the kind of household you’ve likely been used to in England, miss.” Here, suddenly, was the heart of the long speech. “Just me and Prue, and Job and the boy, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable.”

  “I’m sure you will, Mrs. Peters, and I’ll try to be as little trouble as possible. I’m not a bit used to being waited on. My father and I only had one daily girl toward the end.” She had never thought the day would come when she would speak of her father, and face the old nightmare of his death, and what followed it, so easily. It all seemed at last, mercifully, a long time ago.

  The present was Sarah. Here was a challenge, something worth doing. For already she found herself wholeheartedly in agreement with Jonathan Penrose. She could not believe that whatever ailed Sarah was beyond cure. If only she knew more about how it had started. Surely there must be some clue there?

  On an impulse, she asked Mrs. Peters about it, as they wrapped up pound cake and cheese and dried fruit for the picnic. Sarah had retreated to the far end of the big kitchen to kneel in a big rocking chair, rocking violently and singing to herself—a tune that Kate recognized, almost with triumph, as Greensleeves.

  “It’s been a year?” Kate was comfortably certain that Sarah was paying no attention.

  “Since it happened? Just about—and getting worse all the time, poor lamb.”

  “Were you here when it started?”

  “Yes, but they weren’t. Mrs. Penrose had taken Sarah to Saratoga Springs with her,” she explained. “When they came back, I noticed at once the child was quiet—it seemed to come on from day to day: awful to watch it was. She was such a lambkin, Mrs. Croston, before and now ... (she looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice) sometimes it seems as if the devil was in her, and I have to remind myself it’s our Sarey. There’s some in the village, though, won’t come near her. I’ve heard talk, once or twice, that’s frightened me.”

  “And no one knows what started it?”

  “Not rightly. It was that night, of course—the one when she was lost, poor little lamb, and locked up in that awful shed, in the dark. And how she came to stray so far from the hotel is more than I’ll ever understand: she was such a good little thing. Do always try to remember that, when she kicks and screams and bites, and you think you’ll go crazy too. And nothing they can do, the doctors say. It fair breaks your heart.”

  “Well, I’m going to try—” she stopped. What was she going to try?

  “You do that, miss. You never know. She’s certainly taken a rare shine to you, which is more than I’ve seen happen since ... Mind you, she cares about her father, all right; you can see that plain enough, if you just use your eyes.” She stopped, suddenly aware of the implication with regard to Arabella. “Well, there’s your picnic, and I hope it keeps fine for you.”

  Though it was still only the end of May, the sun was shining as brilliantly as in full English summer, and Kate found herself envying Sarah her cool muslin dress as they took the path that led to the violet hollow. This, she was sure, was the place for their picnic, since it was clearly a favorite of Sarah’s. The sun was high overhead by the time they got back there, but she did not open their parcel of provisions at once. The kind of scene Sarah had made over breakfast must be bad for her; she would delay their meal until she had hunger on her side. So she began picking bunches of violets, separate ones for each color, and for a while Sarah joined in enthusiastically. But soon she tired of this, and instead of arranging her flowers in bunches began laying them out in long trails across the clearing, a line of white, a line of yellow, a line of blue. Kate, carefully wrapping her own bunches in damp moss, tried to persuade her to do the same, but it was no use, the child merely shrugged in a curiously adult way, and went on with what she was doing.

  Kate finished her own bunches, laid them down carefully in the shady spot where she had put their lunch, and looked up at the sky, wishing she had a watch. The sun was well past the meridian now and she, for one, was hungry. Without saying anything to Sarah, she moved about the clearing, picking large leaves and laying them out on a flat gray stone to serve as plates. Sarah laid a line of blue violets so that it passed close by this improvised table. In a moment she was watching as Kate opened Mrs. Peters’ neat packets and put a slab of cake, a lump of cheese and a little handful of dried fruit on each “plate.”

  “There,” Kate said at last, arranging a wreath of violets around the little feast. “I’m hungry!” And she sat down by one of the pieces and took a hearty bite of pound cake without apparently taking the slightest notice of Sarah.

  For a moment, the child hung back, but she had had nothing to eat all day except a few spoonfuls of bread and milk. Suddenly she was beside Kate, fra
ntically pushing alternate mouthfuls of cheese and cake into her mouth. Kate took no notice, but went on eating her own food with what she recognized as slightly exaggerated neatness. Naturally, Sarah finished first, and Kate was aware of her casting longing glances at her own pile of dried fruit. Without saying anything, she reached into her satchel for another helping. This, too, vanished at such speed that she began to understand the child’s gaunt, large-eyed look. She was close to starvation.

  It was a relief when Sarah stopped suddenly, halfway through her third helping. Too much, on top of such a long course of undernourishment, might well be worse than too little. Sarah was rubbing her eyes with a dirty little hand. She was visibly dropping with sleep. And no wonder. Kate remembered the night’s endless screaming. She took off her shawl, spread it on a patch of last autumn’s dry leaves, arranged the satchel for a pillow, and picked up Sarah bodily to lay her on the improvised bed. For a moment, the child was tense as a wild little animal, then, as Kate laid her down, she went limp, her face turned into the lumpy pillow. Almost instantly, she was asleep.

  Kate sat down by the driest bit of rock she could find to watch and think about her. Time passed slowly, restfully. Birds made strange, hoarse noises in the trees. Some insect kept up a perpetual, almost mechanical, whirring, creaking sound. A tiny brilliantly green lizard came out and basked in the sun on a rock on the other side of the clearing, and she thought of snakes and wished she had not. She, too, was tired. Her head drooped back against the rock; the noises merged into a summer lullaby.

  She woke with a start, shivering. The clearing was in shadow. She must have slept for a long time. And the child? A pang of pure terror was instantly allayed by the sight of Sarah, curled up in a ball, like a hedgehog, fast asleep. Waking her gently, Kate was filled with bitter anger at herself. What kind of guardian was she to bring this wild little creature out into the woods and then fall asleep and leave her unprotected? But there was no time to waste in self-blame. That could come later. She only hoped they could get home before the alarm was out for them.

  But Sarah would not hurry. Refreshed by her sleep, she darted this way and that from the path—after butterflies, wild flowers, anything, nothing ... Kate longed to pick her up, but remembered how she had resisted this before. Instead, she-held out her hand: “Have you ever seen soldiers marching, Sarah? Take my hand, and I’ll sing you one of the songs they march to.” And then, as Sarah still hung back, she began to sing:

  “The Campbells are coming, oh ho, oh ho,

  The Campbells are coming to bonny Lochleven”

  and walked faster, with a swing in her step, in time to her own music. At last the child fell into step beside her. Their swinging hands touched, and Kate caught hold of Sarah’s, pulling it high in the air on “Bonny Lochleven.” For a moment, she was afraid it would not work, but then the hand that had felt for a moment like a snared bird relaxed in hers.

  So they were marching hand in hand to Kate’s singing, when they came out on to the big lawn and saw Arabella Penrose standing tall, elegant, and furious on the porch. Kate’s voice dwindled into silence, and as they crossed the lawn she regretted with useless passion that she had not paused to tidy the two of them a little before they hurried home. Sarah’s ill-fitting muslin was creased and stained, her own durable worsted little better. They must look a proper pair of tatterdemalions. She could feel Sarah’s hand pulling away from hers and held on tighter as she met Arabella’s frowning look. “I’m so sorry we’re late, Mrs. Penrose, I hope you’ve not been worrying.”

  “Worrying! What d’you think I’ve been doing?” As Arabella’s wrath exploded, Kate instinctively let go of Sarah’s hand and watched her dart away around the side of the house. Arabella drew a deep, angry breath. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t, but I know it must be dreadfully late. We took a picnic, you see, and I’m afraid, afterward, we both fell fast asleep.”

  “Asleep?” Scornfully now. “In charge of a mentally deficient child, and you take her out into the woods, God knows where, and ‘fall asleep’!”

  “It was inexcusable of me,” said Kate quietly. “I can only say I’m sorry. And it won’t happen again.”

  “It certainly won’t,” said Arabella. “I’ll see to that. What did my husband say he would pay you, Mrs. Croston?”

  “He hasn’t said. But you can’t mean—”

  “To dismiss you? Why not? Can you give me one good reason why I should trust you with Sarah after this?”

  “Yes.” The deep, sun-drenched sleep had done Kate good. Her head felt clear at last; her voice was steady as she went on. “I can see now what Mr. Penrose means about the child. I cannot believe that her condition is incurable.”

  “And you propose to cure her by falling asleep in her company? You know so much better than the doctors?” The scorn in her voice should have been crushing, but Kate found it merely a challenge.

  “Well, after all, they do admit that they know next to nothing about what ails the child. If only there was some clue as to what started it. I mean—of course, it would be terrifying for a little thing like her to spend a night shut up, alone in the woods, but still it doesn’t seem enough, somehow. You were there, Mrs. Penrose. Wasn’t there anything else? Anything that would help me to understand —help me to help her?”

  “That’s enough!” Arabella erupted suddenly into a rage that was all the more horrible because she kept her voice low and controlled. “You bitch. You—” She used a word Kate had heard often enough in the army, but never from a woman. “That’s your game is it? To suggest it’s all my fault! To come into my house, a drab, a slut, a bit of army refuse, and try and turn my husband and child against me. Yes, I saw you urge Sarah to run away from me. Don’t think I’m stupid, Mrs. Croston.” And then, on a new note. “Is it Mrs. Croston by the way? Did my poor, gullible Jonathan ever think to ask for your marriage lines before he engaged you? Camp follower with the British Army seems nearer the mark! I wonder what made you so anxious to get away. Yes”—she saw this had struck home —“you don’t much like to be asked that, do you? Well, Mrs. Croston”—this time she made the title an insult—“I’ll make a bargain with you. We won’t go into that Your shabby past shall be entirely your own affair. So long as you are packed and out of the house in half an hour.”

  Half an hour. Before Jonathan came back. Kate put out a hand to steady herself on the porch railing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Penrose, but your husband engaged me. He will have to dismiss me. It’s true enough. He did trust me without seeing my papers. There’s no reason why you should. I’ll bring them down when I’ve put Sarah to bed.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. What’s a piece of paper, after all?” Arabella’s tone had changed to one of mere indifference. “We are both being absurd, Mrs. Croston. You cannot wish to live here in this dead-and-alive hole. I don’t know what your reasons were for wanting to leave Canada—I don’t want to know—but you’ve succeeded. There’s no need to stay here, slave to a child who becomes crazier every day, may be dangerous any moment. Jonathan didn’t tell you the doctors said that, did he?”

  “No. And I don’t believe it. She might just possibly, from what I’ve seen of her, do herself an injury, out of—I don’t know—not caring. But I’ve spent the day with her, watching her. Do you know she goes out of her way to avoid treading on a worm? A butterfly lit on the cake she was eating this afternoon. She’d been chasing them all morning. She could have had it easily. She smiled and blew it away. Mrs. Penrose, I know I’ve made a bad start, but, please, give me another chance. I truly think I might be able to help Sarah. Did you see? She was holding my hand just now?”

  “Yes, I did see. She won’t hold mine.”

  Suddenly, Kate was sorry for her. She made a stumbling attempt to say so. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Penrose. I hadn’t thought what it must be like for you. But she’ll get over it I’m sure she will.”

  “Thank you!” Savagely. “Do you propose to ‘underst
and’ me too, as well as my child?” She changed all of a sudden from anger to condescension. “I won’t keep you any longer from your duties. Or do you think feeding Sarah less important than understanding her?” Moving away, tall and graceful, into the shadowed hall, she turned back for a last word: “We will discuss your leaving when Mr. Penrose gets home.”

  Kate found Sarah in the kitchen, eating cookies under the benevolent eye of Mrs. Peters.

  “I’m glad you sent her in to me, miss—ma’am, I should say. She don’t much like scenes, our Sarey.”

  There was a question somewhere in the short sentences, and Kate decided she could not afford to ignore it. “I’m afraid I’m in dreadful disgrace for staying out so late. I hope Mr. Penrose won’t be too angry.”

  “Angry! Mr. Jonathan? When I tell him Sarey drank two glasses of milk right off? Well, if he is, ma’am, just send him out to me. She looks better than she has for weeks, and will sleep like a log tonight, I reckon, and what’s more important than that?”

  “Thank you.” Tears she had fought while confronting Arabella were dangerously close behind her eyes.

  “Don’t you mind anything, love.” Mrs. Peters bent toward her. “Just remember it’s the child that counts.”

  The child. Kate swallowed tears, and managed cheerfully: “My goodness, Sarah, high time for your bed.” Sarah went to bed without a murmur. Safely tucked in, she looked up just for a moment, directly at Kate. Surely there was the faintest glimmer of a smile in the gray eyes before they slid aside to gaze away into the corner of the room. Bending to kiss the now unresponsive face, Kate made her a silent promise: she would not abandon her if she could help it.

  Downstairs, Kate found, with a sinking heart, that Jonathan and Arabella were already deep in talk in the drawing room. Arabella stood erect and magnificent in crimson satin, her back to the huge gold-framed looking glass over the chimney piece, so that to Kate’s anxious imagination it seemed that two of her were dominating the room. Jonathan was leaning, long and loose-jointed against the window-frame, his daytime black in contrast with his wife’s magnificence, his face shadowed, impassive under the fair hair that always looked wind-blown. Disconcertingly, he stopped talking at sight of Kate and the two of them awaited her in chilling silence.