The heat of the sun had already found its way beneath my hat and into my clothing before I reached the gate. It sapped the energy; there could be little surprise that Helena was fatigued. Without the herbs I had given her, she might be worse yet. Rest was what she needed.
I turned up the hill and strode out despite the almost liquid sunshine. The dandelion clocks lifted from the ground and floated around and before me, sweeping me onward and lifting my spirits. The vista was just as lovely as always, and I found myself thinking again that it was difficult to believe that Lizzie had gone. Up here, above everything, it was impossible to think that any sad event could occur to mar such a lovely place. Even the air cooled a little as I rose higher, providing the marvellous comfort of a breeze, and it was not long before I heard the soft rustle of the oaks whispering to each other across the grove. The place was enchanted, though in no unnatural or sinister way. The air was soft on my cheek and smelled of summer, and as I went the sweet, piercing song of a lark rose into the sky.
Soon another sound began to impinge upon my senses. At first I had no conception of what it might be; I stopped still and listened to the sharp little clicks that sounded like nothing so much as the snapping of tiny fingers: contemptuous, dismissive snapping—and then something leaped at the edge of my vision.
I turned, but saw only the brake of furze. There was nothing else; no one hiding amongst the bushes. Then something else snapped and jumped, and I understood: the gorse was in seed; the withered brown pods had ripened beneath the flowers. They looked as if they had been scorched upon a fire, and in a way perhaps they had, for as the sun beat down upon them another burst open and shot its seeds into the air.
I went on, my steps accompanied by the clicking and spitting, lost in a reverie until I stood beneath the trees, the green circle where fairies were said to dance already behind me. I could not remember if I had walked straight through it or gone around.
I sat beneath a tree on a flat grey stone. Halfoak was hidden by the lip of the grove, but farther in the distance were green pastures flecked with trees and sheep and cows and glittering water. Clouds clung to the horizon, casting their shadows over distant villages and towns, but there were none here; only those of the oaks, shifting at my feet like rapidly passing tides.
I took out Helena’s book and resumed where I had left off. Here it felt entirely apposite—it was after all nothing but a story, its intimations of goblins and fairies, of charms and magical songs, feeling like something from a fairy tale.
As I began to read, a new sensation stole over me. The novel was nothing but a wild tale of wild folk. I had wondered if all its talk of foundlings and changelings was in some sense metaphorical, but it felt closer and more real now than ever. Perhaps there was nothing of the fairy tale about it: Heathcliff was untamed, an elemental being who belonged in the land and was of the land, and he should never have walked among ordinary men. He brought with him only jealousy and misery and corruption. Surely the author had never intended him as a human character: the word “changeling” was no mere insult, it was real, for surely, a changeling he truly was! Even the old nurse, Ellen Dean, had wished to put him out on the landing as a child, in the hope that he would disappear into the air by the morrow. It accounted for all the strangeness of the novel, and, indeed, its power.
I shook my head. The writer surely could not have meant it to be so. Heathcliff was but a man, albeit a strange one, shaped by his questionable parenthood and unstable upbringing. I pictured him leaning against a door, his posture louche and his look impertinent. He was not a good man, but he was just a man all the same, and then I reminded myself that I should not waste my time wondering if he was this or if he was that because he was, after all, no more than ink; ink on a page, and I ceased reading and stared out at the world going on beneath me while I remained suspended above it all.
A sound roused me from my stupor—not the sound of snapping fingers coming from the gorse; I had long since ceased noticing that. I shook away my drowsiness, closing the book and slipping it back into my pocket. A voice was murmuring words I could not make out. I stood hastily and slipped beneath the trees, away from the sounds. I did not know how many in Halfoak had seen me in my dishevelment, or indeed heard of it, but I did not wish for anyone to see me now. I had no mind to converse or even bid them good day. I wanted only to be alone.
I had just slipped from the edge of the clearing when the voice rang out, bright and cheerful, and a figure appeared from below me on the hillside. It was Mrs. Gomersal, and a moment later her son came into view also, skipping along and striking at the grass with a switch. I stepped farther out of sight.
She turned to him and held out her hand as if hurrying him along. His eyes were bright with life, and a babble of words spilled from him as he answered her. He sounded quite unlike the boy I had seen heretofore, nothing but an ordinary child, enjoying a walk with his mother on a fine day. I did not know how I had ever thought there was something strange about him.
Then he pulled away from her and went rushing ahead on his stubby legs, shouting “Papa, Papa!” as he stumbled into the fairy ring.
I hid myself behind a tree, an instinct akin to that which had seized me only yesterday at the Grange, though there was no reason why I should hide in such a fashion. I could only hope she had not seen, for it would serve to heap foolishness upon impropriety. I was glad that Helena was not there to witness it.
I straightened, brushing leaf mould from my clothing, meaning to call out to them as I walked back towards the edge of the grove—
And there I stopped, because my view of it was clear, and yet there was no one to be seen.
I frowned, listening. There was only the lark, soaring so high I could not see it as it sang its beautiful song. There were no voices, no footsteps; nothing at all. The fairy ring was empty. I felt as if something should have changed, a tree split asunder by lightning, perhaps, to mark their disappearance. I removed my hat and rubbed my head. The sun, I thought. It was only that.
I retreated under the trees, wanting to clear my mind, but the shadows did not help; they shifted and whispered all around me. Ahead was the little outcrop of rocks, revealing their faces from inside the hill, and the deeper shadows behind them. I did not want to go further, but I forced myself to do so. Was there really a doorway behind them? I shivered despite the heat of the day and found I could not go another step, so I turned instead, my thoughts whirling, and hurried away from it all. The moment I crossed the fairy ring, turning my back upon it, I felt eyes opening all around and behind me, but I did not heed them.
I did not stop until I reached the path once more and saw the cottage nestled into the hillside below and all was solid and real about me. It was only then that I looked back. Perhaps I should have hailed Mrs. Gomersal and her child.
Putting up a hand to shade my eyes, I searched the hillside for their forms. A few moments afterwards, as if in answer, two dark shapes appeared around the side of the hill and turned, but not towards me. They began the ascent towards the barrow.
My relief was followed at once by puzzlement—where had they been? Where were they going? I could still hear the way Mrs. Gomersal had entreated me not to spend time upon the hillside as clearly as if it were yesterday. I could still see the fear, barely masked, as she said the words, and yet there she walked with her small son, not only fearless but happy. How so? And what could it be that brought her there?
Papa, I thought. Did the child really think his father a fairy? Did he think he would find him inside Pudding Pye Hill? If his mother truly harboured such notions she was more lost to idiocy than I had imagined. But why was she there? It was a mystery. For the first time it struck me that her circumstances were altogether mysterious. I could not perceive what means she had of earning her bread. I had seen her weaving, to be sure, but that occupation had borne the impression more of a means of filling her hours rather than keeping her and hers from the poorhouse. It was something to do whilst she sat on th
e step of her cottage, taking in the sunshine—her well-built, decent cottage. One daughter only lately in service—how could such work furnish them with so pleasant a home? And the boy, sent to school outside the summer months? However should she pay the fees?
I had no way to satisfy my conjectures, so I decided it was none of my concern. I knew how the villagers would explain it; no doubt they would have her in league with the fairies, and them supplying her with fairy gold. But if they had . . . whatever had she done to earn it?
I sighed. I was obviously not yet recovered from my malady. I should return indoors, drink some water, refresh myself. I would lie down, as Helena, my cool, sensible wife, was doing. I had no need to do battle with such thoughts. Once my head was clear and the effects of the sun removed, they would disappear like vapour into the air.
I looked out across the fields before I continued. Men buzzed over them like bees, all untiring busyness and industry amidst the somnolence. It went on as far as I could see; it seemed that everyone in Halfoak was engaged about the harvest save me, and those two.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The shady passage was a welcome respite from the heat outdoors. I gratefully removed my hat. Somewhere within, Ivy was singing. Her voice was not strong but her song was artless and it filled the cottage with a sweetness that made me feel its lack before. I walked into the parlour, smiling, and saw Helena looking back at me from her chair by the window.
She was thin-faced and silent, but she responded when I greeted her and even gave a small smile. Her eyes were dark and a little sunken, and yet she regarded me with such sorrowful sweetness, as if to lament over the distance between us and rejoice in the restoration of peace, that it occasioned much relief on my part. I felt her renewed warmth and it occurred to me that for all her effrontery and nonsense, the wise woman’s herbs may have had some auspicious influence. But then, if her fairy cure had taken some effect—what did that imply about my wife?
Even as I thought these things, Helena rose to her feet. She proclaimed herself in need of a little more restful solitude and she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. I sighed. Of course, the “cure” had done nothing. Even if it had any efficacy, I had had too little of it, and I had altogether lacked the words of the charm.
I shook my head over such fanciful notions, wondering what the parson would think of me, and listened to her step upon the stair. For a moment there was silence, then another snatch of song emerged from the kitchen and Ivy appeared in the doorway, a rag rug draped over one arm, a carpet-beater in the other. She was startled to see me, but at the sight of another human being I felt only a new relief which I altogether failed to conceal.
She gave me a look; I could not tell if it was knowing or innocent. I wondered if she had been speaking with Helena in my absence, and if she had, what they might have said.
But the girl simply bade me good day and informed me that there were chops, with potatoes and cabbage she had dug from the garden, and I realised I could smell it; I felt both famished and yet disinclined to eat. I had to force myself to thank her pleasantly, and said, “We shall soon be spick and span with your help, Ivy. I must thank Mrs. Calthorn for lending you to us for a time.”
She seemed surprised. “’Appy to ’elp, sir, I’m sure, but I can’t do no more after today. Mrs. Calthorn can’t spare me longer. Din’t she tell you?”
I was not a little dismayed. I wondered if Helena had known—Mrs. Calthorn must have informed her—but I did not wish Ivy to see that we had spoken so little to one another that she had not passed on such particulars to me.
“’Opefully that’s all right, sir, wi’ t’ mistress feelin’ more herself, an’ all.”
“Of course. Thank you, Ivy.”
I expected her to go about her duties, but she simply stood there, the heavy rug still draped over her arm, the beater grasped in her capable fingers, and her eyes unfocused as if she were thinking deeply on some unknown subject, or had passed into the land of dreams. She stirred herself and met my eyes, then looked away.
“What is it, Ivy?” I spoke kindly. If she had something to impart, I had no wish to frighten it from her before she could tell it.
“It’s just, I dun’t know if I should say, but there is someone in t’ village if you still need a lass.” She actually blushed. “’Appen I might get in bother for sayin’ owt. But she’s a friend o’ mine, an—”
“Indeed, I shall ensure you do not. We do have the most pressing need for a maid, as you will have seen.” Even as I spoke, I remembered my resolution to remove from this place—but we could not leave yet; not until Helena was entirely recovered.
“Well, sir, it’s Essie Aikin, see. She was at t’ Grange before me, an’—Well, sir, she lost ’er place, as I ’spect you’ll ’ave ’eard, an’ I dare say she wun’t say no to another. ’Er fambly in’t rich, an’ she can’t stop idle, not no more.” She closed her lips firmly together, as if to prevent another word escaping.
“Does she not work in the fields, then?”
“She’s not up to it, sir, not yet. It’s not long since—” Again, there was that abrupt curtailment; the white-pressed lips and reddened cheeks.
I did not need to press her; I knew at once why the girl had lost her position. I had read of the sorry affair in my cousin’s diary. I thought of the impropriety of having such an unprincipled girl under my roof—that must have been the reason, after all, why Widdop had not deigned to mention her to me when I had asked after a maid. Then I bethought of the condition of the kitchen before Ivy had come, unclean and musty, the washing in need of dollying and rinsing and wringing, the fire needing to be swept and laid, the water to be carried from the pump . . . and it occurred to me that Christian forgiveness, after all, was of greater importance than punishment for a girl who had suffered such an unfortunate lapse of judgement.
“Very well,” I said at last, “perhaps you could send her to me.” There would be a further advantage in such a girl: there would be no complaining of the cottage being unlucky, or of its isolated situation, nor indeed any lingering horror at the more recent disaster that had occurred within. She could have little choice, after all, in the matter of her employment.
“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I can’t do that. Me mother’d fetch me a kelk if she knew I’d even said owt about ’er, let alone spoke to ’er.”
“Ah. It’s all right, Ivy. In that case, could you tell me where to find the girl?”
“Well, sir, she lives down t’ bottom o’ the village, past t’ beer ’ouse an down t’ next road—Dog Lane, it is. ’Er ’ouse dun’t ’ave a name or owt, none of ’em do, but it’s t’ one after t’ one wi’ all t’ roses.”
“And her family’s name—it is Aikin, you say?”
“That’s it, sir.” She thought. “’Appen you dun’t ’ave to go down there though, sir, if you dun’t choose. I s’pose you might see ’er in church tomorrer, if she shows ’er dial, anyroad.”
I stared at her until her uncomfortable squirm alerted me to the fact, and then I nodded and let her go about her work. She scurried away like a rabbit to its burrow. I had not realised that another week had passed. Once again it had come as a great surprise to me that the following day was Sunday.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Against my expectation, Helena received my suggestion that we attend church with sober, if not eager, agreement. I had considered it carefully, thinking that it might be an occasion for her to be seen by Yedder and his friend Thomas Aikin, and decided I should not let it stand in the way of what was right. There was little likelihood of them recognising my wife in her Sunday attire as the wild creature they had danced with by moonlight in the lane.
I had mentioned it to her that evening, and she had agreed before firmly closing the door to her room once more. She had not re-emerged; she refused all offers of sustenance. I protested that she was not thinking clearly and that she must eat, but I made my protest to the blank, closed door. Church, at least, wa
s another promising sign that she was feeling somewhat improved.
Now God’s sun shone down upon sinner and saint alike and all was harmonious. Helena emerged from her room wearing the same pale grey gown she had worn for Lizzie’s funeral, but I pushed that remembrance aside; I had our future to think of and I was determined not to dwell upon the past, not today. Divine service would be refreshing for us both, body and soul. We could think upon our Creator and the world and our little place within it, and it would be just the thing to restore Helena to herself.
I could not help but speculate upon what might pass for a Sunday service in these parts. The parson had shown himself capable of droning dullness and lightning admonishments; I wondered which he would loose upon the world today. And the congregation—surely they would be capable of all kinds of hoydenism and clownishness? I pictured a seething mass of them in their smock-frocks, all crossing themselves at the name of our Saviour, spitting at the name of the Devil and smiting their breasts at the name of Judas.
As for those who seek them out—those who go looking to find evil—why, they shall find it, sir, and only harm shall come to them!
I sighed. They might do well to spit and cross themselves at such things, if it only helped them remember not to listen to such foolishness.
But the parson hadn’t really thought it foolish, had he?
At that moment the distant sound of the church bells rang out, calling all men to worship. I took a deep breath and held out my arm for Helena. She took it, as silently as she had done everything else.
I had hoped that we might fall in with Mrs. Calthorn and her son, possibly even receive an invitation to join them in their pew, since they had shown Helena some kindness—it would not only be hospitable but it would surely remove another difficulty, that of where to sit. Each pew was no doubt rented and paid for, the province of a particular family; doubtless it would have been for generations.
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