by Sara Seale
"Hence the ring, I suppose," he said. "Won't he let you go?"
"He - understands about us, now," she replied. "He - was very kind and gentle."
For a moment she thought he was going to burst out into extravagant speech, but, instead, he gave her an odd look, and said they had better run through her part in the new play.
She did not hear from Lucius, as he had promised, and she supposed that as he knew now that his allowance was safe whatever happened, he was no longer interested in what became of her. She would forget him, but she would not forget Nicholas' generosity. Some day, in some way, she would repay him.
After the last performance of Prunella, the members of the company sat in Moira's dressing-room, drinking cocoa, and looking a little dejected. The house had been half-empty, and Jake had decided to put Charley's Aunt back into the bill until they could get a new play together.
"Betty will be out of hospital in a week, but she'll have to go slow," he announced. "I can't get anyone from the agencies to take her place, and Shelley is hardly experienced enough, yet. I think we'll have to cut our losses and pack up."
There were a few half-hearted protests, but they knew they were beaten. Polzeal was a disheartening town in any case. They would do better, as Jake suggested, to disband for a time and get together again for a tour with more profitable bookings.
"I'm so sorry," Shelley said, as she and Colin walked back together to her lodgings. "It must be so disheartening for Jake - for all of you."
He smiled, noticing that, quite unconsciously, she did not include herself as one of them.
"Yes, it's tough, but I think Jake is used to running his company at a loss. But he never would go in with other man-
agements, and we - well, we like working together." "What will you do?"
"Oh, find something as a stop-gap. It may not be necessary, anyhow, if the agencies send someone down."
He did not immediately remind her that she, too, would be out of a job. She had clearly never thought about it.
"Have you been happy with us, Shelley?" he asked as they reached the door.
"Yes, Colin," she said, touching his hand. "You've all been so kind."
He looked down at her a little quizzically. "Have you thought what you'll do?" he asked. "Me?"
"Yes. You'll be in the same boat as all of us, if we do pack up, you know."
"Yes." Her forehead wrinkled. "Yes, of course. Would I have any chance of finding a - stop-gap, did you call it?"
He shrugged.
"Possibly. You have the looks." "You'll help me, Colin, if we have to leave here?" "Do you want to leave? Polzeal is near Garazion, you know."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing, perhaps. Do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"You should go back to the dragon." She flushed faintly. "I wish you wouldn't call him that." His fair eyebrows lifted.
"I'm sorry. I think, then, you should go back to your husband."
"No ..." she said. "No ..."
"Well, you know best. Good night, my sweet."
The following day was wet. No rehearsal had been called for the morning, and Shelley idled the time away in her ugly little bedroom, washing tights, and polishing her nails. She felt restless and out of tune, and she thought of Garazion and the empty cabinets in Nicholas' study, and knew a strange desire to return just once more and hear the iron gates swing safely
shut behind her.
There was a battered old book of fairy-tales on a shelf by her bed, left behind by some other tenant of the room, and she took it up now and leafed through it, renewing acquaintance with the familiar illustrations, which some child had crudely chalked over. Here was Cinderella gazing at an emerald green pumpkin, here was Jack climbing an impossible beanstalk, and here was Beauty, with bright yellow hair, finding the beast dying in the rose-garden.
Her eyes scanned idly down the page, and she remembered how she had told the story to Nicholas that first evening he had come to Gull Cottage, the evening he had bargained for her with her father. Beauty could not help fretting for the sorrow that she knew her absence would give her poor beast; for she tenderly loved him, and much wished for his company again....
She closed the book and gazed out on to the wet streets. Did she love Nicholas, she wondered at last, despite the strangeness of their marriage, despite the fact that his own love had been given and rejected so many years ago? She remembered his gendeness with her, and the firm comfort of his hands, and she thought of him saying: "I'm selling my collection, Shelley. I thought you'd like to know."
She put the book back on its shelf, and went out to meet Colin for their usual coffee-shop lunch.
"What a day!" he observed as she joined him. "It doesn't exactly cheer one's spirits, does it? I've never known such a wet spring. You look a bity peaky, my child - do you fancy dried egg or corned-beef hash?"
She chose the hash without enthusiasm, and he gave their order to the waitress.
"Oh, by the way," he said, "You've had a write-up in the local paper. Quite a nice little puff, too. I brought it along to encourage you."
He pushed across a paper folded at the right column, and she read it indifferently.
"Well?" he said, "Aren't you pleased? Doesn't it inflate the ego for you?"
"Not particularly," she replied, and began idly scanning the rest of the news.
She was just going to put the paper down, when a small paragraph caught her eye, and he watched her slowly turn white as she read it.
"What is it?" he enquired curiously. "An 'orrible murder?"
"Listen," she said. " 'Mr. Nicholas Penryn of Garazion, was found unconscious yesterday in the grounds of his home. It is believed he was attacked by a man recently discharged from the Penryn china clay works. The extent of Mr. Penryn's injury is not, as yet known.'"
She sat staring at him, and if it was possible for her to grow any paler, she did so. Even her lips were colourless.
"Here, drink some water," he said quickly, and poured some into a glass for her.
"I must go to him," she said. "Colin, I must go to him at once."
Foolishly, maddeningly, a passage from the old story which she had read only that morning, ran through her dazed thoughts. The beast lay dying in the rose-garden .. .forgetting all his ugliness she threw herself upon his body, weeping and sobbing the while ... But she could not weep, she could not move, She could only stare at Colin and repeat:
"I must go to him."
He looked at her with a twisted little smile.
"It hits you, doesn't it?" he said. "It hits you right in the solar plexus. Well, I expect that's as it should be."
"Yes, it bits me," she said with dry lips. "Suppose -suppose I'm too late, Colin..."
"Now don't dramatize," he said sharply. "If it had been anything serious, they would have let you know."
"You don't know Nicholas," Shelley said distractedly. "He never tells you anything. He wouldn't want - he wouldn't try, and-"
"What you're trying to say is he wouldn't try and get you back that way," Colin said. "No, I don't suppose he would. I think he's probably an extremely proud and sensitive man, from all you tell me. Now, come on. Eat your hash. It looks revolting, but it'll do you good."
She half-rose to her feet.
"But don't you understand, I must go at once. I must hire a car."
"When you've had something to eat, I'll borrow Jake's car and take you there myself, but not before," said Colin firmly. "Now be sensible, Shelley. It does no good to face an emotional scene on an empty stomach."
She tried to eat, but the food only made her feel sick, and in the end, he gave up trying to persuade her, and took her back to her lodgings.
"I'll have the car round in a jiffy," he said. "Don't bother to pack anything. You can come for your things later."
"Yes, of course," she said in a dazed voice. "I'll be coming back, won't I?"
He smiled.
"No, my sweet, I don't think
you'll be coming back," he said, and went away to the garage where Jake kept his car.
She remembered little of the drive, aware only of the rain which spattered on the cracked windscreen, the harsh, wheezy sound of the engine and the speedometer which never seemed able to climb above forty.
Now she knew pain, she thought dully, now she knew that aching sense of void that life without Nicholas must become. And she knew, too, that even if he had no love to give her, it did not matter so long as she could be with him.
Mist lay over the moor, and the high wall of Garazion rose suddenly to meet them. The gates, for the first time she could remember, stood wide open.
"Shall I drive up to the house?" Colin asked, breaking the long silence.
"No," she said, "put me down here."
They stood for a moment in the rain, while he took her hands in his.
"Well, it's good-bye this time, I think, Shelley," he said gently. "I think, too, you've come to love the dark Penryn, haven't you?"
She was not paying attention, and her eyes had the dazed look of a sleep-walker's. "Run home," he said. "God bless!"
Her eyes focused on him then, and she reached up and kissed him.
"God bless..." she replied. "And - thank you..."
She turned then and ran from him up the drive, and the mist closed in behind her. The quietness of death lay over the rose-garden, and not even a bird rose at her approach. In the rain she had left Garazion, and in the rain she returned, under the weeping skies. She pushed open the heavy front door, and the stillness flooded out to meet her.
In the hall she stood, listening, but she could only hear her own blood pounding in her ears, and she began to run through the rooms looking for Baines ... Beauty ran from room to room, calling out, Beast, dear Beast, but there was no answer ... No answer, no answer, her heart cried, as she fled up the stairs.
She ran into her bedroom, and stood for a moment, listening, but the door leading into Nicholas' room was wide open and there was no one there. The bed was smooth and neat, his brushes were ranged precisely on the dressing-table just as she remembered them, and the room had an empty, unused look.
He was not here, he was not anywhere in the house. Panic-stricken, she pulled the bell-rope, jerking it up and down, then tugged at the one in her own room, and ran out onto the landing and down the shallow stairs, calling: "Baines ... Baines..."
The old man hurried into the hall in his shirt sleeves, a baize apron round his waist, a piece of silver and a leather still in his hands, and looked up at her with startled eyes.
"Baines! Where is he?" she cried.
His old eyes softened.
"Mrs. Penryn, ma'am! You've come back. When I heard the bedroom bells, I was startled ... excuse me, ma'am, while I fetch my coat."
"Tell me quickly - where have they taken him?"
"Taken who, ma'am?"
"Mr. Nicholas. What hospital? Why wasn't I told?" The old man looked at her quietly.
"Dearie me, what tales have you been hearing?" he said. "There's Mr. Nicholas, just come in."
Shelley wheeled round. The front door had opened quietly, and Nicholas stood there, dark and very still, looking at her. He saw the strain in her attitude, the distraction in her eyes, then her face crumpled like a child's. She fled across the hall to him, and, sobbing bitterly, flung herself into his arms.
"Oh, Nicholas ... Nick ..." she cried, "I thought ..." She could not finish, but, weeping, hid her face against his breast.
Over her head, Nicholas looked at Baines. The old man smiled and nodded, and went softly back to his pantry.
For Shelley, the relief was too great. She wept in his arms, beyond all explanation, and for a little while he held her without speaking, then, gently, he disengaged her clinging hands and closed the door behind them, shutting out the damp and mist.
"Come into the warm," he said, and led her into bis study and put her into a chair by the fire.
"Now, tell me what's happened," he said quietly.
She looked up at him, her lashes wet and stiff with tears.
"I thought," she said, "you were hurt. I -1 drink I even thought you might be d-dead."
He looked puzzled.
"But why on earth should I be dead?" His eyes narrowed. "Did something go wrong at Polzeal?" She shook her head.
"It was in the paper, about you, and I thought - "
"Do you mean that crack on the head I had? I'd no idea they had reported it." A strange expression came into his face. "Shelley, is all this heartache and distress on my account?"
"I ran all over the house and couldn't find you ..." she said forlornly. "I thought they had taken you away."
"I was only knocked out," he told her gendy. "Beyond a cracking headache, I was none the worse. Is that what brought you back?"
She nodded, and he sat down, never taking his eyes off her.
"Shelley, if you come back to me, it's final," he said quietly. "I won't let you go again. I want that to be clearly understood."
She nodded again, and her eyes wandered slowly round the room. The cabinets had gone, and most of the glass and china.
The unknown child still looked gravely down above the mantelpiece, and the Bartolozzi print remained.
"It looks odd without the cabinets," she said slowly.
"Do you like it better?"
"It's more - more friendly, but - "
"But what?"
"Well, I could have become fond of your collection now." "Why now?"
"Because - because it means a lot to you." "It meant nothing to me after you had gone," he said, and her eyes widened. "Is that why the gates were open?" she asked. "The gates?"
"Isaac always kept them shut - to guard the collection, I thought." He looked at her strangely.
"The gates have been open ever since you went - in case you should return," he said, and she flung back her head.
"Then you've wanted me?"
"Yes, I've wanted you. Did you think I wouldn't?"
She slid out of her chair and came and knelt on the floor beside him.
"I thought you would want to be free of us both - Father and me," she said humbly, and he put both hands over hers, and regarded her with his familiar, searching look.
"I could never be free of you, Shelley," he said strangely. "And you, I'm beginning to think, don't want to be free of me."
"No," she said on a quick little intake of breath. "I knew that before - before - Did they find you in the rose garden, Nicholas?"
For a moment he looked puzzled.
"As a matter of fact, they did. Why?"
Her fingers curled round his.
"Don't you remember the story of Beauty and the Beast?" she said, "Beauty went away and, when she returned, she found her poor beast dying in the rose garden."
His eyes held a curious expression.
"And what happened then?"
"Then she knew she loved him."
He did not move, but she felt him stiffen.
"What are you trying to tell me?" he said a little roughly.
Her eyes were suddenly shy.
"I'm trying to tell you that's what happened to me," she replied in a very small voice.
His dark eyes searched her face, seeing there a new maturity and a heartbreaking plea for acceptance.
"Do you know what you're saying?" he asked with a quietness that deceived her.
"Yes." She could not meet his eyes, but, suddenly, she could talk to him, could tell him at last what she wanted of him. "I know you don't love me as you once loved Lydia, but that doesn't matter ... you've told me you don't expect love, but - let me love you, Nick, a little... let me in behind the bitterness and the old hurts ... You see" - she raised her eyes to his - "you made such a - a bogy out of your poor old face that I forgot the ending of all fairy-stories, when the beast is disenchanted ... you forgot, too, but perhaps you thought I couldn't love you..."
She reached up and drew his face down to hers, and turning the disfigured cheek towards h
er, kissed him gendy.
She felt him tremble, then the long control of months broke in him, and he pulled her up into his arms with a passion which startled her.
"I've loved you ever since I married you," he told her in a voice which shook. "Even from the time I first saw you dabbling your feet in a pool on the shore ... from the time when I brought you home, and you looked at me with those grave child's eyes and thought me a stranger... I couldn't tell you that I loved you so deeply that any small gesture of repugnance from you was gall and bitterness to me because I believed I was the sort of man no woman could love ... If I shut you out, my darling, it was because I didn't dare admit you, because you seemed to want nothing of me, because I felt that your father and I, between us, had cheated you. Now can you understand?"
She turned her mouth to his, stopping the fierce torrent of words, no longer afraid, no longer unsure of how best to bring him comfort, but remembering, even then, to send up a silent
prayer of thanksgiving to St. Mewan, slayer of dragons.
Beasts and dragons, it was all the same, she thought, resting against Nicholas' breast. The triumph of faith in the fairytales ... the little miracle of faith in common life...
Here, Penryns had lived and died, here their children would be born, and their children's children ... This was Garazion, stronghold of the dragon, the beloved prison. This was home.
