“A chair, Susan.”
Anthony turned, and saw the girl in the blue dress.
“My great-granddaughter,” said Mrs. Bowyer.
Anthony put out his hand, but it was not taken. Mrs. Bowyer’s granddaughter dropped him a sort of charity bob and made haste to set a chair. She was bare-headed. Her hair was much darker than he expected, and it curled. It seemed to him a very surprising thing that it should curl in that soft way. Her lashes were dark too. She bobbed to him and she kept the lashes down, but there was a glint of blue between them. It was just as if she had looked, and looked away.
He was pricked with a sharp surprise, because he knew now where he had seen Miss Patience Pleydell before. She was his great-great-grandmother. And this village girl had her eyes, and her sweeping lashes, and the secret hidden smile that eluded you when you looked for it and came when you looked away. All the time he was talking to old Mrs. Bowyer he knew very well that Susan was smiling to herself. Yet when he looked up, she was always sitting quite still on a decorous straight chair with some white sewing in her lap, and the face bent over the sewing as grave as if she were in church.
Mrs. Bowyer put him through a most determined catechism.
“And who brought you up now?”
“My mother’s aunt, Mrs. Wimborne.”
“To think of that now! I don’t know what the world’s coming to when young folks die and leave their children to be reared by the old uns. I reared twelve, and they’re all gone now—and I’m here.”
She leaned back, rocked once, and came to her questions again with that vivid flash of interest in her eyes. Anthony found himself telling her about the Wimbornes. She took a passionate interest in the number of acres Uncle Henry had farmed, just what rotation of crops he followed, and what breed of cattle he favoured. She seemed to know all about dairy work.
The visit lasted a long time; and all the time that he talked, Mrs. Bowyer’s granddaughter sat sewing and never spoke a word. Suddenly Anthony pushed back his chair a little. He smiled ingratiatingly at old Mrs. Bowyer.
“Isn’t it my turn now?” he said.
“And what is the meaning of that?”
“Well, I was thinking that it might be my turn to ask some questions.”
She nodded a little.
“And what is it you want to ask, sir?”
It was the first time that she had said “sir.”
“I want to ask you about the Coldstone Ring.”
Susan’s hand, which had been rising and falling as she took her neat, fine stitches, fell now upon her knee and rested there. Anthony knew that just as well as he knew that Mrs. Bowyer was considering what he had just said. She hadn’t said “no.” She looked him over and considered him. Then she said,
“And what is it you want to know, sir?”
When she said “sir” the second time, Anthony had a flash of insight. She had been weighing him, and he was accepted. He felt an absurd pride.
He leaned towards her and said gravely, “I want to know what you can tell me. No one will talk about the Ring, and that makes it very difficult for me—I’m sure you see that—because Sir Jervis wanted me to promise not to move the Stones—”
Mrs. Bowyer uttered a sharp exclamation:
“Eh—but you’d never do that!”
“Never promise—or never move the stones?”
“Have you promised?”
“No, I haven’t. I don’t like promising things. And I want to know why. I don’t like mysteries either. Why are the Stones not to be moved?”
Mrs. Bowyer rocked.
Anthony got up. Now that he was standing, he could see Susan. She was sitting up straight; the hand with the needle rested on her knee. She had just looked away. He caught the last flicker of blue, the last movement of the falling lashes. He was aware that she was as intent as he. They were waiting together for the answer to his question.
Old Mrs. Bowyer rocked slowly. At last she said,
“What’s been told you then?”
“Miss Arabel says—” And then he stopped.
Mrs. Bowyer shook a little. He thought she was laughing, but he wasn’t sure.
“Eh? Miss Arabel?” she said. And then, with extraordinary vigour, “Nought’s as much as she knows.”
He was taken aback for a moment. Then he laughed.
“Well then, I haven’t been told anything, and you can begin at the very beginning.”
She met his laughing look with a twinkle which was suddenly extinguished. The black eyes remained fixed upon him in a deep brooding look; they gave him the feeling that she was not really looking at him, but past him or through him to something at an immense distance. Then all at once she shook again and said,
“The beginning—that’s a long way back—there isn’t anyone can tell you as far back as that.”
“What can you tell me?” said Anthony.
“Can’s one word, and will’s another,” said Mrs. Bowyer. Her eyes had lost their brooding look, and her voice had an edge.
“What will you tell me then?”
“What did Miss Arabel tell you?”
“Nought,” said Anthony with a grin.
She rocked herself and shook with that soundless laughter.
“Nought’s what all the world knows. Coldstone Ring’s been here since the old ancient times—all the world knows that. And the Stones ha’ been taken and built into housen and walls—I’ve one for my doorstep, and another for the hearthstone, there under your heel as you stand now. And the man that laid it there was a William Bowyer, same as my husband and my father. There’s allays been a William Bowyer. And William that laid that stone he was my grandfather’s grandfather, and he could tell my grandfather of how the Ring used to stand with two rows of great stones and the Coldstone lying in the midst—he could tell my grandfather that, and my grandfather could tell me.” She stopped, and her eyes twinkled. “That’s nought—all the world knows that.”
“Did he tell you the devil came out when the Coldstone was raised?”
She looked at him sharply.
“That’s nought too.”
“You mean that everyone believes it.”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because it’s true.”
“That the devil came out?”
Mrs. Bowyer pursed up her lips.
“Why don’t the grass grow round the Coldstone?” she said.
Anthony felt a strong excitement.
“What happened when they lifted the stone?”
A look slipped over Mrs. Bowyer’s face. It came and went so quickly that he could not be sure of it. She might have been afraid, or she might not; he couldn’t tell. She said just above her breath,
“Nought.” Then, in a much stronger voice, “There’s things that all the world knows, and there’s things that no one knows, and there’s things that didn’t ought to be meddled with.” She put out her hand. “And thank you kindly for coming to see me, and good evening to you—you’ll be kindly welcome whenever you come. Susan—”
The audience was at an end. Mrs. Bowyer terminated it with as much ease as if she had been royalty; her wrinkled hand was very graciously extended.
Susan rose, laid down her needlework, and opened the door for him. On the threshold she bobbed, and he felt an anger that surprised him.
“Why do you do that?”
“Sir?”
He backed away from her a step and pitched his voice for her ear.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Sir!” This time the word reproved him.
“Who are you?” said Anthony.
“Please, sir, Gran told you—I’m her great-granddaughter.”
“You’re like—” He didn’t mean to say it, but the words broke from him.
“Sir?”
“You’re like one of the pictures at Stonegate.”
And at that he saw her colour rise. The blush ran right up to the roots of her hair, and as she felt it,
she stepped back. Before he could speak again the door was shut.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Susan leaned against the inside of the door and shook with laughter.
“Lord ha’ mercy! What’s come to you?” said Mrs. Bowyer.
“Oh, Gran—has he gone?”
“Out at the gate, cross the road, and in again.”
Susan ran forward and dropped on her knees by the rocking-chair.
“Gran, did you hear me say ‘sir’?”
“Couldn’t hear nought the way you mumbled. What was he saying to make you as red as fire?”
“He said he wanted to talk to me. And I said ‘Sir!’ in the most rebuking kind of way—you know, the real ‘Unhand me!’ touch.”
“And let him see he could make you turn colour?”
“No, no—it wasn’t for that at all.”
Mrs. Bowyer chuckled.
“No maid never blushes along of what a lad says to her or looks at her! ’Tis allays because the sun’s too hot, or the wind have caught her, or such like.”
Susan put a hand on her arm and shook it.
“Gran, what a low mind you’ve got!”
“Well, if ’twasn’t the sun or the wind, what was it?”
“He said—Gran, he said I was like one of the pictures at Stonegate. Am I very red?”
“Middling.” Mrs. Bowyer’s voice was very dry. She looked at the flushed face and bright eyes and nodded. “Aye—and so you are.”
“Red?”
Mrs. Bowyer nodded again.
“Aye—and like the picture, too.”
“Oh! Whose picture? Oh, Gran, why didn’t you tell me? Bad angel—tell me at once!”
“There’s names for you! It’s easy seen I hadn’t the bringing up of you. When you say ‘bad angel,’ you might as well say ‘devil’ and have done with it.”
“I will if you like. Oh, Gran, tell me who I’m like—angel—darling!”
Mrs. Bowyer surveyed her with a curious look of pride.
“You’re like Miss Patience Pleydell that was—Mrs. Jervis Colstone, Sir Jervis’ grandmother.”
“Am I? Am I really?”
“Her very moral.”
“What a jest! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Least said, soonest mended.”
“You’ve said that before, Gran.”
“And I look to say it again,” said Mrs. Bowyer very composedly.
Susan sat back on her heels and laughed.
“I say—I’d better wear my sun-bonnet all the time, and pull it well down over my face, or we shall have the breath of scandal blowing a regular gale in Ford St. Mary. Oh, Gran, I must see the picture!”
“That you can’t—not in decency.”
Susan began to speak, stopped, and changed to a coaxing tone.
“Gran—tell me about her. Do you remember her?”
“Aye—with white hair.”
“What was she like?”
“An old grand lady with brisk ways. ‘Old Madam’ they called her, and everyone had to do her bidding.”
“But she’s young in the picture.”
“’Twas done before she married old Mr. Jervis.”
“I must see it! What has she got on?”
“A blue petticoat and a flowered dress. You can see them, if you can’t see the picture, for Miss Agatha went to a ball dressed up to copy her, and she gave me the dress a long while after when she was turning out her boxes. You can fetch it out if you like—and put it on too if it will fit you. It’s in the chest in your room.”
Susan lost interest in the dress quite suddenly. She said, “Thank you, Gran,” in an abstracted voice. Then she played with the edge of the black alpaca apron, pleating it up and pinching the pleats to make them stay. Then she said,
“Gran, why wouldn’t you tell him about the Coldstone?”
“Wouldn’t? I’ll thank you to leave my apron alone. Wouldn’t?”
“Yes—wouldn’t. You know you could, Gran.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Bowyer. “That’s talking. Wouldn’t and couldn’t it just words.”
“Don’t you think he’s got a right to know?”
Mrs. Bowyer fixed a gaze of bright intensity on the flushing face.
“And what d’you think he’s got the right to know?”
“The truth.”
Old Mrs. Bowyer chuckled.
“That’s a big, brave word. You see here, Susan—when you told the lad your name was Susan, wasn’t you telling him the truth? And when I told him you was my great-granddaughter, wasn’t I a-telling him the truth then? To be sure I was. And when he’s been told the truth by this and that, what does he know? Nought, I tell you—nought.”
“What d’you mean, Gran?”
“I mean you can take that for a parable. I’m to tell him the truth about the Coldstone? Well, that’s true what he’s heard from Miss Arabel—things happened in the old ancient times, and folks believed what they believed. That’s true. I’m not saying there’s not more things true than everybody knows—I’m not saying that.”
“What things?” said Susan in a whisper.
“Things that’s hid behind the other things—true things that’s hid behind a lot of talk—and maybe other things that’s hid behind them again.”
“What other things?”
Susan was still kneeling, her face very close to the old wrinkled face. She leaned on the arm of the chair and bent forward and spoke on a low breath:
“What other things—Gran?”
“Old ancient things,” said Mrs. Bowyer in a hushed voice.
“Won’t you tell me?”
“They’re not for me to tell, nor for you to hear. Maybe you know that, Susan. Maybe you know more than you let on yourself—eh?”
Susan jumped up.
“Gran!”
“Not telling’s a game as two can play.” She shook with that silent laughter. “When you’ve told, you can’t take back again—and when you’ve heard things, you can’t go back to where you were before.” Her solemn look changed suddenly into one of malicious amusement. “Eh, my dear, there’s a lot of fun in finding out!” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mrs. Bowyer did not approve of Summer Time, but she regarded it with tolerance. It did not disturb her habits, which were those of an older day. She had always risen and gone to bed with the sun, and she didn’t see why other people couldn’t do the same without making a lot of fuss about it. In her young days you got up at five in the summer, and you called it five. It was a shiftless modern generation that had to be lured out of bed by calling five six. “Bone-idle when there’s work to be done, and strong as oxen when it comes to dancing, or gadding, or trapesing into the town to see they moving pictures. I haven’t no patience with them.” This was to the address of Mary Ann Smithers, who was being courted by the butcher’s lad from Wrane, and who “trapesed” a good deal in consequence.
Susan did not go to bed with the sun. She sat in the garden as long as Gran considered it respectable, or rather longer. It was apparently more than a little scandalous to allow darkness to overtake one in one’s own back garden. It was one of the things that weren’t done in Ford St. Mary. Still less could one wander abroad in fields made strange and strangely vast by the soft, even darkness.
Susan left the garden reluctantly. The hot, still air was full of the dreams of sleeping flowers. The silent hives were like black hillocks. She wondered if bees could dream, and what their dreams would be. There was a sweetness everywhere—lavender; southernwood; late sweet peas; the cabbage rose and the old-fashioned white, very sweet, with a stray bloom or two; and invisible dark carnations. The flowers of a cottage garden dreaming fragrant dreams.
Susan went upstairs on tiptoe without a light. It was quite dark in the house, with the close indoor darkness which is just a black curtain before the eyes. In her own room there was a little dusky glimmer that came from the uncurtained window. She drew the curtains and lighted a candle. When she lifted it, all t
he shadows rushed down from the black rafters and hid.
There was a good deal of furniture in the room—a white painted chest of drawers and an old mahogany one; a washstand with a marble top and a double set of china which was the pride of Mrs. Bowyer’s heart; a wall-press; and a tall chest that served for a dressing-table. It was made of deal, old soft brown deal, and it was beautifully panelled. The lid was held down by a great iron hasp.
Susan lifted the looking-glass off the lid of the chest, and laid it carefully on the bed. Then she stopped and looked at the chest again, and then she looked at her watch. It wasn’t late enough yet. Ghosts don’t walk till midnight—a very sensible arrangement for securing privacy. She finished clearing the lid of the chest, removed the clean white cover which converted it into a dressing-table, and slowly lifted the lid.
Anthony Colstone went to bed at eleven, and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. It was his enviable habit to do this and then to sleep dreamlessly until he was called next morning. He was therefore a good deal surprised at finding himself suddenly awake in the pitch dark. He was not only awake, but very wide awake indeed and sitting up. Such a thing had only happened to him twice before in his life. On the first occasion the Wimbornes’ house had been on fire, and on the second an Indian thief, oiled from head to foot, was feeling for his revolver—Anthony got it first. This was the third time.
He was quite wide awake. There didn’t seem to be any smoke, and he couldn’t hear a sound. Of course, with a really talented thief there wasn’t any sound to hear. The oily gentleman had been as silent as a shadow. It wasn’t a sound that had waked Anthony then. He didn’t think it was a sound that had waked him now. Yet he listened with all his ears. There was no sound at all. A dead still house—a sleeping house; and the sense of someone awake, someone besides himself. It was quite dark, no moon outside, but he could just see the outline of the window.
He put his hand on the matches, then slid out of bed and went to the door. Whatever had waked him wasn’t here; there was no sense of another person in the room. He opened the door a chink, then wider, and the darkness and the silence of the house flowed in and rose about him. With the darkness and the silence something else came in—the sense of an alien presence.
The Coldstone Page 7
