by H. F. Heard
The Dean’s presence and attitude proved, at least at the beginning of the interview, astringent—a fact for which he was considerably more grateful than she. He was coldly business-like: did not refer to the death; told her what he wished for himself and gave her the main control of the house. She was elevated from cook to housekeeper. She was left neither puzzled as to what he might want, nor unpleased by the recognition and promotion, both in rank and salary, that she now had received. On his side he now knew, with a feeling of complacency at his own adroitness, that he had reached the point when he ought, having pointed her mind to a far from unpleasing prospect, to be able to get her out of the room. Then the return of her grief—which quite clearly was getting ready for a come-back—would submerge her when and where she would have more suitable, more equal aid than he would or could supply. Yet to say “That is all, Mrs. Binyon” might have about it just that touch of finality and dismissal that would give her emotions their cue, recalling the final finality. She would feel it was her duty to refer to it—as “Happy Christmas” must be said when meeting anyone on the Feast. An innocent stratagem came to him.
Rising he went to the window, from which a glimpse of the garden could be obtained, for his study had the same outlook as his bedroom next to it; they were both over the great parlor and so, from a higher level, shared its view.
“I thought, Mrs. Binyon,” he remarked over his shoulder, “that last night a dog had managed to get shut up in the garden. Will you tell Silas to see that neither he nor the boy leaves the garden gate open. I was roused a couple of times by some yapping. Please see that he gets that message from me as soon as he comes in with the vegetables.” That would necessitate her leaving at once. For, as it happened as he looked down from the window, he had been able to glance at the figure of the gardener in the kitchen garden making his way toward the back of the house with his daily offering from his stores of winter vegetables. He speeded her with this watch-tower information and then turned back to his desk certain that she too must have begun her turn toward the door. She had not, and his look of annoyed question was not left unanswered long enough for him to put it into words. He was answered by a question.
“Ah, then, Sir, you heard it too?”
Before he could retort “You’d have to be deaf …” or had to check himself from the irritated but unfortunate addition “It would disturb the dead …”
She had added, “You know, Sir, what it was!”
He certainly knew that he did not want her explanations.
“I’ve told you. Please go at once and tell Silas to lock the iron gate at the end of the garden. If you don’t go at once you’ll miss him!”
“Oh, no Sir! No! No locking of gates nor bolting of doors, no nor high walls round them and glass set on the top of them—no, that sort is not stopped by that sort of thing or order. If you yourself, Sir, instead of Silas—if you yourself, Sir, with all your linen and satin, your robes and your rites were to go instead of him—poor fellow with his key and his spade—why, Sir, it would make nor a difference nor a dimming of that din than if I in my kitchen with the kettle over-boiling and the frying-pan afire just spoke eloquent and courteous-like to the red-hot kitchen-range!”
He saw with a dismay, that under its irritation had still some humour, that his effort to get rid of her and forestall the emotional outburst had evidently, for some obscure reason, been the actual trigger that had sprung the mine.
“Well,” he cut in, “that dog can be kept out of the garden. Please don’t argue but go and give my instructions!”
“But that’s the point, Sir, as you’ve just said—a dog, yes, and then very well. But, Sir, I’ve been with hunting people and I know the countryside. That’s no dog, at least it’s not a dog you could have in the house. It’s a dog-fox that was barking on and off all last night. And I know why: When I was in Ireland with the household of the Master of Thomondstone, well we knew that sound. And well, on such a night as we’ve now been through, we knew what it meant. As long as one of that race was lying ‘in wake’ as they would say, there would never be a fox in any of the coverts and ever there would be a fox round the house barking, calling at him, they would say.”
“Mrs. Binyon!” his voice was raised, “I will not have that kind of superstitious and insane nonsense spoken in a Protestant Christian household!”
For a moment he felt ashamed at having used such a term and such a method. His shame was, however, instantly expunged by relief. Mrs. Binyon, accused of unchristian, unprotestant views recollected herself. Of course she could not deny to herself that she had picked up those theories and fancies over in Catholic Ireland where anything, as you might say, might take place. The gale of her conviction suddenly fell. But that, as might have been expected, by a better student of humanity than the Dean, permitted the deluge of her grief to break.
“I am indeed sorry, Sir, that I should have repeated such things, but, Sir, with poor dear Miss Laetitia, lying as you might say.…”
He was determined that nothing more should be said by her or him. He swung open the door and pointed to the stairs. Already the handkerchief had been mounted to mast-head so that Cook’s mouth and nose were covered. Wiping her now pouring eyes Cook picked her way to her kitchen, her chair and a strong cup of tea.
Still she had been right. And the Dean himself, with a suppressed bewilderment, realized that there was nothing now that he or his staff could do about it. The two nights before the funeral, he heard the rapid barks as though they were peremptory calls, repeated knocks summoning a doorkeeper to open or take the consequences.
After the funeral there was silence. Indeed nothing happened till a February day which was calm, still and sunny. He took a turn in the garden. Half-way down against the south-looking wall was a fine Forsythia, the first thing to bloom. He had gone over to examine the hundreds of bright yellow blossoms, almost like small gold flames in the level sunlight. Then turning back to the long alley of mown grass that led up to the house, he glanced its whole length, for it ran from the house to the wrought-iron gate in the brick wall that terminated the formal garden. The design was finished off down at that end by a sundial set on an ample paved base. Evidently, on a day as mild as this, the few hours of sunlight had been sufficient to warm the stone pleasantly. For stretched on it lay a small dark fox. It certainly was not very shy for, though it looked wary, it did not make at once for the shrubbery, but watched him with its head on one side. He went quietly, slowly toward it until he could see that the thick hair of its coat was really a dark walnut tint. It rose then but stood its ground and when he paused not half a dozen yards from it, it stretched itself and actually took a step in his direction. Then it too paused. It turned its head even more on one side as it watched and held one of its fore-paws raised, as though wondering whether it might come closer. He could see the bright amber of its eyes.
Suddenly he raised his arm. It darted across the strip of lawn and into the thick yew hedge. He did not cross the herbaceous border to look into the hedge. But after he had had his tea in the great parlor he went to the window, drew aside the curtain that the maid had already pulled to and looked out into the garden.
A fox was standing some three yards outside.
That night was as still as the day had been. But though he was awake several times he did not hear any barking. In the end he nearly overslept himself, waking with a start, not certain that the housemaid had not knocked at the door with his tea and shaving water. He sat up—no, he had not overslept—the room was still in dusk; outside the day could not have come fully. The house, too, was still. Then he was aware that someone might be, must be standing, just outside the bedroom door. He nearly called out “Come in.”
But a moment after he felt sharp relief that he had not done so, when down at the door threshold he heard a long breath being drawn. He bent toward the side of the bed nearer the door and listened. Perhaps a minute later he heard steps coming up the stairs. When they reached the landing they stopp
ed for a moment and he was not sure that he did not catch a suppressed exclamation. Then they came on till they were at the door. There came a low tap.
He answered with relief, Yes, now it was the maid. He thought that after her “Good morning” she might be about to add something. If so she thought better of it.
He lay for a while sipping his tea and wondering whether in this case it was well or ill that the silence, which he had done so much to teach his household, had been observed. He could not make up his mind for his mind was not clear as to the matter of fact. To decide whether or not he would like to be informed it would be necessary surely that one should know whether there was information to be had?
That point at least settled itself without undue delay. First he saw the intruder at the end of the entrance hall, a large almost empty space but not too well lit. Then a couple of evenings after he was sure it was in his study. He heard something move and looking up from the circle of bright light given by his reading lamp caught sight of two small bright eyes. They seemed to have been caught by his sudden movement of his head. The animal was not grooming itself. He and it regarded each other, his face as expressionless as its mask. Then it moved off into the shadow. He remained looking for some while at the spot. He did not get up to investigate. At dinner that night, when, as he liked, the dishes had been put on the table and he had been left, he was reading a book. Looking up over the top of it he saw the fire burning pleasantly and seated in front of it, not looking at him, sat this dark-haired fox. He could see the sheen of the flames on its thick glossy coat.
“A fine little animal,” he remarked in a low voice.
It did not stir at the sound of his voice nor did he stir to come near it. He bent his eyes to go on reading. After a little while, when he put out his hand to touch the bell, he saw that the hearth rug was vacant.
This absence continued for some three days. Then, though the snuffling did not come at his bedroom door again, he saw the creature in most of the other rooms and in fairly good light. It appeared last of all in his bedroom. He had gone to sleep but woke up, he judged, before long. The waking was of that sort that he felt not the slightest drowsiness left in him. On the contrary, he was restless and, acting on the impulse, got out of bed. The moonlight was coming through a chink left by the curtains not being close drawn. He went across and looked out at the night. The moon was still fairly high—a partial moon, the incomplete disk made by sections of two convex curves. He looked at it for some time, as though he were trying to recall something. Then he drew the curtains and turned back toward the bed.
The room naturally now appeared to him completely dark. But knowing his position and that the dressing table was near him, he put out his hand. A box of matches was kept there to light the two candles which stood each side of the big mirror. His hand found it and he struck a light. He saw himself looming in the long glass and behind his white figure the white glimmering surface of the bed with the sheets thrown back. On this vague whiteness there was a small dark body.
He whirled round so fast that the match in the draft went out. He felt behind him—he did not dare to turn his back—found the matches again, succeeded in lighting one and this time looked directly at the bed. There was nothing there but the rumpled sheeting. Carefully he turned again and lit one of the candles, peering into the glass as soon as he had done so. Again the bed was obviously vacant. He did not dare, though, to go to it. He lit the other candle, went to the wardrobe, took out a heavy dressing gown and sat himself in an easy chair. The candles burnt down to the socket but at last the dawn came. He had not dozed for a moment. He drew the curtains and looked out at the grey morning. Then he looked in the mirror at a face far more grey and dismal, a face that became almost ghastly as he involuntarily looked over the mirror-image’s shoulder and scanned the empty bed. He brought himself to go and look directly at the sheets. No, there was nothing there, no trace, imprint, not a hair. He sat down utterly exhausted after that, with his eyes closed.
At last he said one word, “Laetitia!”
18
The Dean left his house as soon as he had made a pretence of breakfasting and conducting family prayers. Outside he started in the direction of the Palace but after a few steps he changed his course and went toward the town. He met Dr. Wilkes just leaving on an early round and asked him if he could spare him a minute. Still he needed the Doctor to begin the interview for him.
“Mr. Dean, remember the old advice a stitch in time—to which I would tack on a later saw, Better a little now than nothing soon!”
“You think I have become tired again so soon!”
“This is to be expected. You have been through much.” He added as complimentary enquiry, “Don’t you find that those who can best show least must feel most? No one can practise the care and cure of bodies and not realize how the mind takes it out of the body.”
“But”—the Dean disregarded the personal reference “—the Dean’s task is not that of a rest-taker whether lying abed in the Deanery or ‘lying abroad’ as the old phrase was about ambassadors.”
The minimal joke eased a little their exchange. The Doctor was able to press his point.
“I don’t think you realize how tired you were last time and therefore how remarkable was your resilience and the benefit you won from such short change. If I may say so, sooner or later a man of flawless health is confronted with a problem weaker humanity is prepared for by a lifetime of intermittent ailing. There comes a day when the best of us discover that we must give ourselves more time, must wait while Nature makes necessary time-taking replacements. As I say, this knowledge tends to come suddenly on the outstandingly hale. An expected external shock precipitates—”
He left the sentence uncompleted. He felt genuinely sorry for this stiff, fineminded, withered-hearted man, now left in that complete loneliness that in the end envelopes those who have only permitted as much intimacy and affection as they can use for their own convenience.
“Well, that’s my advice. And I’m making it for the Close as much as for yourself.”
He felt a certain pleasure in being able to advise one so aloof, the genial patronage of the expert called in to speak as a special witness.
“We’re proud of you, Mr. Dean, and we want our scholar who gives this quiet little place its prestige, to live out finely his full allotment of years. I think you will agree with me that scholarship is a fruit which, like the fig, depends on a late warm summer.”
A friendliness which certainly had in it an assumption of at least temporary equality, and would certainly at any other time have been resented, now seemed almost welcome.
“Well”—and the Dean tried to keep his tone at the same officially unanxious level—“today you of the lancet and the bottle speak with the authority once possessed by the pastoral staff and the mitre. I’ll think it over.”
“He’d better,” Dr. Wilkes said aloud as he watched the tall black figure stride back toward the Cathedral gate. “That walk is too rigid. He’s brittle. If he wasn’t a Dean you’d think that masked nervous hurry showed a bad conscience. Well he may blame himself for his sister’s death and maybe has some right. Steady selfishness probably accounts for more murders—by causing a kind of anaemia of the spirit in the kindly—than does arsenic.”
The Dean, however, at that moment was thinking what he would say to the Bishop. Arriving at the Palace he was shown up at once. Bishop Bendwell was at work at his desk with young Halliwell who withdrew. The Bishop rose and put his hand on his visitor’s shoulder.
“Sit down, sit down.”
Then having done so himself he looked with his head on one side at the figure which certainly showed a slackness that was as uncharacteristic as it was significant. And with a snap-judgment speed that was as uncharacteristic of himself the Bishop found himself saying,
“Easter will give us time this year. Do you know, just before we get into Lent, it strikes me it would be wise for you to run off and have a week at Cambridge or Br
ighton if it suits you better. Cambridge did you so much good last year, and now with this sorrow—yes, I advise it as your spiritual physician.”
“Well.” There was a faint relief in the voice. “Do you know that was the very question on which I came to consult you. The man of the body has just pressed the same counsel on me.”
“Out of the mouth of two witnesses shall everything be established.” The Bishop quoted with kindly unction, then rose. “I’m as busy as a banker at a quarter day. You get off as soon as you can and be back as fresh as you were on your last return so we can get through Lent and Easter all right. You know there can be no help from me once the Confirmations begin!”
Halliwell, hearing the visitor go, returned.
“Well,” remarked his master, not looking up as the assistant resumed his place, “at least I didn’t waste any time with the inevitable and on the irrelevant. It’s nerves of course. He’s obviously physically as strong, and probably as temperamentally touchy, as one of his Arab horses. A good deal of remorse, no doubt, and aperture of expression atrophied. My oculist told me if the tear duct is blocked and you want to weep it may be quite painful. You have no comment? Well discretion, Anglicanism’s pet virtue, has been called the silent hyphen between Charity and Truth.”
