by Susan Hill
He would have read but could not, would have prayed, and dared not.
And so, gradually, the silver-grey line of dawn crept around the curtains and into the room, and he lay revealed in it. And then for a few moments, he did sleep a strange half-sleep and held the dream again before him and wonderfully, the dread and horror were suspended, dissolved, and he knew only thankfulness and joy, and could rest a little in the light of them.
So that, opening his eyes as the sun rose, and shone onto his face, briefly he was filled full of what he knew quite certainly was love, before the terror engulfed him again and he fell down into all darkness.
Above all, he must avoid encountering the real Kitty. (For they were separate still, the girl on the bridge, and the cousin, Kitty Moorehead, though he knew them to be the same.)
He took to staying all day in his rooms, or at least within the boundaries of the college, and only returning after dark. And even then, took a route quite different and farther round than usual.
Georgiana, left alone, was concerned, bewildered, and went wearily back to the begging letters about the house in the country and when she raised her eyes from them, supposed that it was still the question of the mastership that troubled him. For her own part, she no longer thought of it at all. Let it be. Whatever he decided, she would accept for herself, for what other choice had she?
‘Dear Canon X … Dear Miss de Y …’
His work he undertook mechanically, listened to the essays read aloud to him by the young men, went over their translations, explained this, emended that. Took refuge in Homer, soothed by the ancient story, which did not touch at any point upon his real life or concerns. And the birds, late at night – for he avoided going to bed as long as possible, he sat among them for hours in the darkness, comforted.
From time to time, he took out his notes on the sea-birds, stared at them, but wrote no more. All of that seemed far away, unrelated to him. And all day and all night, went in fear, and had no ideas what he might do.
But the picture was always there, waiting for him to turn to it. The girl on the bridge. Kitty. Not Kitty.
20
AND FOR the next two weeks, the dream came again and again, until he was distraught. He thought that he should talk to someone. But there was no one, it was out of the question.
Once or twice he went into the chapel. But the chapel was cold and bare and empty of all help, there was nothing for him there.
And the nights came, and after the nights, the beautiful, sunlit days, full of birdsong and the greening of all the trees. It was full spring, but he scarcely knew it.
In the end, there had to be some resolution.
It was after nine o’clock in the evening, quite dark. The air soft, and smelling sweetly of grass.
He had dined alone, in his rooms, spoken to no one.
He came out of the shadow of the college. Walking briskly as he did he would be home within minutes.
But at the top of the street, he veered off suddenly, cutting down first one, and then another side lane, keeping close to the high walls, until he came out again in a different part of the town.
And after a hundred yards slowed his pace.
There was no moon, and yet he was afraid of being seen. Once or twice, a cab went by and he shrank towards the hedge.
And then he saw the house. The curtains had not been drawn, and the lamps were lit and shone softly out of the wide windows of the drawing-room.
At first, and for some time, there was no one. The house stood alone, the room empty. Thomas stood motionless on the pavement, not thinking, not knowing why he was there, or what he expected to happen. No one walked past him. If they had done so, he had not imagined what he might do.
Somewhere, a dog yapped. Again. A door closed.
And then, a shadow crossed the light and looking up at the window, he saw her. She was standing in profile beside the lamp. Her hair was drawn back. He could not see her face.
But after a few seconds, she turned and then he did see her. And at that moment, Kitty and the girl on the bridge merged and became one, reality and memory, his dream and the picture before him were now the same. He stood transfixed, and he knew love, pure and absolute, as he had never known it in his life before, so that he struggled to catch his breath. And then, he could only half run, stumbling, away, and after a long time, found himself walking fast down one of the straight roads that led between mean dark little houses, and so out of the town, towards the open country.
21
FOR IN the open country he could breathe again, he felt better with space on every side of him.
The cottage in Warwickshire was in the country, and far further from any town. But that was not open, it was closed in, the woods came down to the house and seemed to press upon it, to drain the air.
Miss Hartshorn felt choked, stifled, when she stepped outside, to stand for just a few minutes at the front door, or briefly into the garden, her lungs seemed to fill up with moisture, her head ached dully.
But she had scarcely been outside these past weeks. Had been nowhere at all.
And now, tonight, her friend Marjorie Pepys was dying.
It had come so soon.
Once, they had made plans, discussed what they might do together in retirement, where they might venture. But the plans had been shelved, had not been referred to at all, they had done nothing, everything had become subservient to Miss Pepys’s dying. Day after day, Amelia Hartshorn had woken to the recollection of it, and to notice, as she had never done before, the darkness, the claustrophobia of the cottage.
They might have talked, there was much they could have said. But they did not, they said almost nothing, for talk exhausted Marjorie Pepys, and in the end, where was the point of words?
And so, they sat on opposite chairs, across the little, crowded room, and later, Miss Pepys lay on the sofa, and at last, in her bed, and dozed, and from time to time, opened her eyes, which watered constantly. But saw almost nothing.
I should read to her, Amelia Hartshorn thought, and gathered piles of books from shelves about the house, and set them on the table beside her. Now, she might read again all those writers they both loved, and which she had remembered in India, Stevenson, Thackeray, Shakespeare, Lamb.
But did not. Sometimes, picked a book up, turned a page. But could take nothing in. And Miss Pepys slept and was far away. Only watched, guiltily, helplessly, the slow business of her dying. Except that it was not slow, it had been quick, so quick, she had scarcely arrived home, had not been given time to get used to it, to come to terms. And how long had Marjorie had? And now tonight, suddenly, it was here. Death. It was almost over.
She had pulled her chair a little away, towards the window, the lamp was low, and threw shadows onto the ceiling, and in the light of it, Marjorie Pepys’s face was tallow, dry.
Through the window, slightly ajar, came the night smell of the garden, the trees, the river, and from the wood, the night sounds. She remembered the horror of the night sounds in India, and how she had longed, prayed, to be back here, longed for the owl and the barking vixen, and the sound of rain sussing down through the leaves.
From the bed, a stir, half sigh, half rasp in the throat. Words? Miss Hartshorn went to her.
The bedclothes were scarcely raised, she lay, flat as a leaf or a sheet of paper beneath them, she might have had no bones or flesh at all. The skin was transparent over her wrists, bone gleamed through, bluish-white. She was a stranger, unknown, no longer familiar. Yet alive, the pulse still beat in the cords of the neck.
The noise again. Words. Yes. Amelia Hartshorn bent her head. ‘Open the window wider.’
She did so, and the breeze blew in, drifting the curtain about.
Now her eyes were wide open, and very blue, bright again, as they had always been, and struggling to see.
Now, she smiled.
Miss Hartshorn touched her hand, dry as a moth’s wing, she thought it might crumble to dust beneath her fingers.
> And then she wanted to cry out, why did you not tell me? Why did you not write? Was it to punish me? I would have come home. I would never have gone.
Should never.
The voice came very clearly, startling her in the quiet room.
‘We are barren,’ Marjorie Pepys said. And then, her eyes closed, and for a long time, there was silence, she seemed scarcely to breathe.
It is death, Miss Hartshorn thought, and felt a leap within her of something like dread and excitement mingled. Death.
But the night drew on, and death lingered outside the door and in the end, the lamp flickered and failed and so she sat on in darkness beside the friend she no longer knew, and thought of India again. But without feeling. And once or twice, of Kitty. But without interest.
It was not until five or so that death came at last into the room, along with a chill, damp breath of air from off the river, and the first, sour, parchment light of morning.
‘And a window is always left open, even in the depths of the harshest winter.’
Mrs Gray’s fingers darted in and out, in and out, the crochet needle cocked at an angle.
‘For the soul to escape, and to fly away from the body at the moment of death.’
Kitty was half asleep, curled in the armchair beside her, like a small child listening to the last story before bed. (For at last she had settled, after wandering aimlessly about the drawing-room, or simply standing, still, beside the window, close to the lamp. It was the evenings that dragged and were dull here.)
‘Have people seen the soul at death?’
Dart, dart, dart. ‘Oh, many have. Those with the second sight.’
‘What sort of people are they?’
‘It is very common in the Highlands.’
‘What have they seen?’
‘Some say a bird. Some say a moth-like thing. Or a wee bright insect.’
‘Mother, you should not fill her head with your tales. Kitty has come here to be educated, to have her mind sharpened.’
Florence was writing a letter to Eleanor Moorehead, mainly about Kitty. But her voice was mild, she was unable to rebuke anyone, or to be seriously irritated about anything, she felt warm, smug, with hope and anticipation, she had assured herself, past all doubting now, that Thomas Cavendish would marry her.
‘I have arranged two classes, in History and the History of Art. With some ladies here who have been most highly recommended – the Misses Lewis. They are sisters, and have taught in schools, and are very widely travelled. And she is to have Mathematics in a class with three other young ladies. She seems very interested in scientific subjects. But I am told that the Classics should have priority.’
She glanced up again at her mother and Kitty, huddled in chairs together, gleeful with talk. Thought, it is good for them both, for the old to be with the young. And all the time, I have something of my own, another life to look forward to, at last.
And she held the secret of it close to her and drew warmth and strength from it, fed off it, as she bent her head, again, smiling, to the letter.
He sat in the darkness, on a stone at a crossroads.
(And the house in the country, the house being made ready for the fallen women, was no more than a mile away, if he had known it.)
It rained a little, damping his hair and the shoulders of his coat. But he was scarcely aware of it, or of why he was here, or what he might possibly do.
But the night sounds, the open air all around him, made him long to be out on the marshes, sitting silently on the dark water in the punt, or on the deck of the houseboat, watching, waiting.
And he remembered his last time there, and looking back, saw it as a time not only of peace and utter contentment, but of innocence, too, like some paradise before the fall.
And he longed desperately for that time now, that absolute lightness of heart.
And he would go, get ready tonight, and be there this time tomorrow. He stood up, began to walk.
Except that he could not. He might never go there again. He was another man now.
But then an image came to him of Kitty, looking out across the water, pointing, turning to speak to him, and he grasped at it, his mind raced ahead. He would take her there, she would see it all, be with him in that place, as he knew that she would surely be with him, in dreams, night and day, if he went alone, and he walked faster down the empty road, in thrall to his fantasy.
It was only an hour or more later, reaching the first of the houses, that he stopped, and came back to himself, and to the harsh reality of things.
The clouds cleared, letting out the moon, a half-moon, waning, not bright, but giving a little light to light his way, as the old clocks chimed two, and he walked, more slowly now, dazed, as though he had been knocked out and come to, half conscious.
And in the darkness around him, there were still sounds, and others walked here and there, in the lanes and alleyways and down the avenues and across the grass that led to the river and the weir. But he heard none of them, saw nothing.
Did not see Adèle Hemmings as she walked, maggot white and naked, between the bushes and undergrowth bordering the houses higher up the avenue, her mind a mass of fragments of strange, bewildered, unrelated thoughts.
Georgiana, awake in her room, heard his footsteps and the closing of the door at last, and was relieved of her immediate anxiety, that he had not yet come home, and yet not relieved at all, but deeply troubled, and unable to speak of it. And so remained drearily awake, hearing the wind, if it was the wind, rustle and stir the branches and bushes in their garden and other gardens along the quiet streets.
22
LATE APRIL, and the first swallows seen, dipping and skimming over water, the first cuckoos heard. And a light breeze blows the apple blossom prettily down, to lie in soft heaps on grass and path, fresh for half a day, before curling, browning, scattering away.
In the gardens of the women’s college, the lilac buds, horse-chestnuts burst and flare, and the college tortoise, newly emerged from deep beneath soil and stones, stalks warily, legs like stilts, across the lawn.
The young women, skirts hitched, were playing croquet.
‘There is croquet in India. At the club.’
Kitty sat in a canvas chair, on the terrace, beyond french windows.
They were taking tea with Thea Pontifex.
‘Oh, but then, of course you must play!’ Thea sprang up. ‘Come, let me take you over, let me introduce you.’
Kitty looked to where the group parted, swaying, laughing. Already, shadows had begun to lie along the grass. She thought, and I will come here, I will; be like that, independent, happy, learning, among friends, it is what I want to work for. And followed Thea.
She is pretty after all, and she is almost a young woman, Florence thought, watching, leaning back in her chair. Though once among them, shaking hands, talking, Kitty was still slighter, younger-looking, and somehow frailer. For the young women of the college had already fought battles and emerged triumphant, and were confident, secure in their place here.
She remembered her own recent passion to take up some course of study, and belong in this place, and with surprise, amusement, even. All that was far away now.
But Kitty. Yes, Kitty would do very well here, and she would be more than happy to put all her energies and powers of persuasion into accomplishing that, to live this life through her.
Kitty held the mallet, laughing. They were deferring to her, welcoming, kind. The ball cracked forward, went anywhere. The group parted and re-formed, there was more laughter.
The tortoise had reached the rockery.
Returning, sitting beside her again, Thea Pontifex said, ‘Kitty must be properly taught. She is a clever girl. Little classes here and there will certainly not be enough, if these plans for her are serious.’
Mallet clocked against ball, again, raising a small cheer.
‘I have made a start on arranging things for her, but it is clear that I simply know too little about the rea
l requirements. I see that now. Kitty must be given every opportunity, be guided in every way.’
‘Her parents have given you carte blanche?’
‘Her parents …’ Florence paused, remembering the rather vague letters.
‘Her parents perhaps see it more as a way of passing the next year or so, until she is grown up.’
‘Yes. I daresay they have the usual horror of female education.’
‘But I do not. And Kitty is in my charge here. I am to make the decisions as I see fit. And she is clever, you say so yourself.’
‘I have said that she seems to be alert and intelligent. Of course, I have as yet no proof.’
‘And keen to study.’
‘Yet I doubt very much if she has any idea of what study is.’
‘Then she will learn. And that is precisely why we are here. Why we have come to you.’
A jubilant shout from the croquet game, and Kitty darted, slender, eager, to retrieve the ball from among the lavender bushes bordering the far side of the lawn.
Thea Pontifex turned her head away from them, to look again at Florence.
‘There is something I have to tell you.’
The game was resumed.
‘It is that I have become engaged to be married.’
Before Florence could comment, she said quickly, ‘I shall leave the college at the end of the summer. Of course, I shall give all the help I can to Kitty until then, and think of who might advise you more closely, but I myself will not be here. It seems right that you should know. You and I are such old friends. I – we – have not yet spoken of it to very many people.’
For a few seconds Florence sat in silence, the garden, the graceful, burgeoning trees, the figures on the lawn unseen before her, as she felt anger, anger and bitter envy rise up like bile within her, and she stared at Thea, plain, dowdy, studious Thea, friend from her youth. But always, until now, somehow inferior, and to be patronised and pitied.
