‘I…I would rather go to my room.’ Her voice was weak, and Dan said, ‘You will in a moment; Mary’s bringing you a drink. Ah, here she is.’ He took the glass from Mary’s hand, but when he went to hold it to Miss Brigmore’s lips she waved his aid aside and, taking the glass from him, sipped at the brandy.
‘I’m…I’m sorry, Brigie.’ Barbara had not moved from her chair, and Miss Brigmore looked toward her and answered simply, ‘It’s all right, dear.’
There was a sudden rush and Barbara was kneeling by the couch, her head buried in Miss Brigmore’s lap, her arms about her waist, and the sobs now shaking her body, she cried, ‘It isn’t all right. It isn’t all right. I’m wicked, bad, and you have been so good to me all my life. I didn’t mean any of those things, I didn’t but…but I can’t stay, Brigie, I can’t, I’d die. And it isn’t because of you, it’s because—’ she now lifted her head and looked up appealingly into Miss Brigmore’s white face and, her words slow and her voice more quiet, she added, ‘It’s everybody around; I’d…I’d never be able to go into a town, Allendale, Hexham, anywhere, not even walk the country roads but I’d be pointed at, the Mallen girl who caused Sarah Waite to lose her leg. And…and I know if Jim Waite had his way I’d be publicly hounded, taken to court. I…I couldn’t bear it, Brigie.’
Neither Brigie nor Dan, nor even Mary, contradicted her in any way for they knew that what she was saying was true, although it was something they hadn’t openly faced.
As Miss Brigmore put her hand on the black shining hair and gently stroked it she turned her eyes to where Dan was sitting to her side and said, ‘When will you be going?’
‘There’s…there’s no real hurry now.’
‘You must not alter your plans; the sooner it’s done the better.’
‘No; as I said, there’s no real hurry. What does a week or two matter? And…and we’ll be married from here, Brigie.’ He now brought his eyes down and looked into those of Barbara. She was still kneeling, holding Brigie, but her head was back on her shoulders now and her mouth was open to protest, but she didn’t. Something in his face cut off any protest she was about to make, and some detached corner of her mind was pointing out to her that this man who was so much shorter than herself, and so much in love with her, and always had been, to use his own words, would not be as pliable as she had imagined, and as she stared at him she thought for a moment she was gazing into the face of his father.
When her head drooped he said, ‘Well, that’s settled. Now Brigie, try not to worry any more; things will work out.’
‘Yes, yes, Dan, things will work out. Would you excuse me now?…would you mind, dear?’ She gently extricated herself from Barbara’s arms and, her usual dignity hardly impaired, she rose from the couch and walked slowly out of the room and up the stairs and into her bedroom. Again she stood with her back to the door but now she covered her face with her hands and murmured through her fingers. ‘Oh! God. Oh! God, help me to bear this.’
After a moment she walked to her bed and sat down on the chair at the head of it, and clasped her hands in her lap she sat staring straight ahead, looking, as it were, down the years that were to come when she and Mary would be alone in this house, cut off from the house over the hills, and cut off from the Hall, for she knew, from what Harry Bensham had said over the past weeks, that he was really seriously considering selling the place, and if this were so she would never set foot in it again. So here she would be, alone with Mary, who, although a dear soul, was intellectually as companionable as an arid desert. But it would be on Mary she’d have to rely for companionship until one or the other of them died. The prospect caused her to close her eyes tightly.
And now she asked of God what she had done that such justice was meted out to her; was this payment for the pleasure she had derived from comforting Thomas? If it were, it was a high price to pay. Life, she thought, was a sort of madhouse. There was no reason or logic in it. You were brought into it and moulded in a certain way; the mould was termed environment, and its early years shaped your thoughts, and your thoughts dictated your actions and set your principles, and you lived up to them, except when, as she had done, you violated the laws of society and gave yourself to a man outside the sanctity of marriage.
But viewing her life through the ideals of justice, she considered that she had paid for the liberty she had taken because she had lost her good name and become publicly known as Mallen’s mistress. One time in the market she had been laughingly referred to as one of Mallen’s night workers; she had actually overheard this with her own ears; and so, speaking of justice, hadn’t she made payment enough for her one misdeed, and she admitted to it being a misdeed?
What she didn’t admit to was the accusation that Barbara had just levelled at her, that she was responsible through her teaching for what had happened to Constance and the other Barbara, and even to Katie with her radical thinking. But most of all she denied the responsibility for what had happened to Barbara herself, for from the very day she was born she had thought of nothing but guiding her aright.
She recalled the agony of the days she rode across the hills to beg Donald Radlet not to take the child from her, the child who was his half-sister. The hollowness inside of her that day when she watched him prepare to go and fetch the child himself was in her now. His death on the fell—his murder on the fell—had saved Barbara from this diabolical rule, and herself from dire loneliness. Now, almost twenty years later, it was Barbara who was inflicting on her a future of loneliness, and she didn’t know if she’d be able to bear it. Yet she must appear to bear, if only until she was gone—married.
Dan was a kind man, and although he appeared of small stature he was in a way not unlike his father in that there was a determination in him, perhaps not so strong as was in his father, nevertheless it was there, but she wondered if he realised what he was taking on in marrying Barbara, in marrying a girl who had not a vestige of love left in her. No-one who had been obsessed with a love such as hers for Michael, and who had gone through the sufferings of the past months, could scrape from the dregs of her feelings anything approaching love for another.
An overwhelming feeling of sorrow swept over her, and not only for herself, it enveloped Dan and Barbara, and Constance, and Michael, and Sarah; oh yes, Sarah. What was it about the Mallens that they should at one point in their lives do something evil?
There were strange stories still current of the evil doings of the Mallens over the last hundred years or so.
During her own stay at the Hall Thomas’ legitimate son, Dick, had almost killed a bailiff in the kitchen and he would have certainly killed Waite had the same bailiff not prevented him. And it was she herself who had provided the money for his bail by secreting valuables out of the house with the co-operation of Mary Peel and the children. And what had he done when he had been bailed? Run away to France, and she had heard of him no more until he had died, strangely enough within a short time of Thomas; and the solicitor had come to the house to say he had left two thousand pounds, but not to her, no, because she wasn’t Thomas’ wife. The money had gone to Thomas’ daughter Bessie who had married an Italian count. She thought, in an aside, should I tell Barbara about Bessie before she leaves; it may make her feel better knowing she had a relative among the foreign aristocracy.
They said the Mallen wickedness was depicted by the white streak in the black hair. Dick Mallen had carried the streak, as also had Thomas’ natural son, Donald Radlet, and the cruelty in Donald had been deep and wide. Yet Thomas himself had carried the streak, and Thomas had not been evil, unless you would place his desires under that heading, and these were no worse than those of many another man of his time and position.
Barbara had no visible streak to identify her as a Mallen; yet the streak was there, deep inside. She had always known it, and feared it and what it might lead her to. And her fears had not been unfounded.
But there were two types of cruelty; there was physical cruelty and mental cruelty, and Bar
bara was capable of using both. She had read somewhere that you hurt those you loved most. She did not believe this maxim; no-one, unless his mind was deranged in some way, stabbed himself to death, and that is what you did when you hurt those you loved, stabbed yourself to death.
She looked across the room to where she could see the reflection of herself in the long mirror, and what she saw was a middle-aged—no, she must be truthful—an old, staid, primly dressed governess, the latter expressed by every detail of her.
She had the greatest desire, the strongest desire of her life, to die at this moment, to die before her child walked out of her life, to die before the loneliness of the house and of her mind drove her mad.
Nine
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of the Congregation…’
There was no congregation except the four people standing below the altar steps. The church was cold and dark, it was almost like a preview of the tomb to come.
Barbara’s thin body, shivering within a beautiful fur cape, which was part of Harry’s wedding present to her, did not stand dazedly as one in a dream but was alert to everything about her. The old minister’s voice, thin and piercing, sent each word like a steel wire through her brain.
‘…and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understandings: but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God…’
In the fear of God. Did she fear God? She should fear God; Brigie had brought her up to fear God; but she feared herself more.
‘It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication…’
Was she sinning more now than she would have sinned if she had made Michael love her, love her without marrying her? And she could have done it, she could have, she could have. The voice in her mind was drowning that of the minister.
‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye should not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony…’
Yes, yes, she knew of an impediment. There was no love in her for the man at her side. And he knew that; but he would comply with what the minister was saying to him now.
‘Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, as long as ye both shall live?’
‘I will.’
‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?’
‘…I will.’
‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’
Harry took a short step toward Barbara, touched her arm, and mumbled something.
Dan had hold of her hand. He was repeating words after the minister; their voices see-sawed through her head. To love and cherish till death us do part.
‘I Barbara take thee Daniel to my wedded husband to have and to hold from this day forward…’
He was putting the ring on her finger.
‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…’
It was done. They were kneeling side by side, but she was in the black hole again, her body shivering as she waited to die.
They were walking over the rough stone slabs toward the vestry. Dan held her hand tightly; he was looking at her.
She turned her gaze toward him. His face was unsmiling, but there was a look in his eyes that she could only describe as wonder, and in this moment, she prayed, ‘God, let me love him, for he deserves to be loved…’
It was over. They were back in the carriage, and Harry aiming to break the solemnity of what he termed to himself a wedding that had been sadder than any funeral he had ever attended, clapped his hands loudly together as he said, ‘That church; I’ve never felt so cold in all me life. How do the poor beggers sit through a service in there? An’ him; he looked as if he hadn’t thawed out for years.’
‘You’ll have to donate the money for a stove and coal, Dad.’ Dan smiled wryly now as he looked at his father from the opposite side of the carriage where he sat beside Barbara, still holding her hand.
‘What! Me donate a stove and coal you say? Not on your life, lad. From what I know of those fellows they see to number one; big fires for their toes and laced gruel for a nightcap. I know where the coal’d go.’
‘I couldn’t imagine he’s seen a good fire in his life.’
‘Well, whether he has or not, you’re not gettin’ me to donate any stove. Now, if you had brought it up afore and not rushed at this thing like a bull in a gap, and I’d been given some idea of what I was to go into this mornin’, then I would have had two stoves put in there. Anyway, it’s done; isn’t it, lass?’ He leaned forward and put his hand on Barbara’s knee, and her voice low, she answered, ‘Yes, yes, Mister…’
‘Now look, get over that an’ quick. No more Mr Benshaming; you either call me Harry, or Dad, like the rest; you can have your pick. Now this one here’—he turned his head on his shoulder and looked at Miss Brigmore—‘she would sooner go to the gallows than call me Harry, wouldn’t you?’
Miss Brigmore looked back into Harry Bensham’s eyes. She knew what he was trying to do, but she couldn’t assist him by even a smile and was grateful when he returned his attention to Dan and Barbara and said, ‘What did I tell you?…By! I wish they’d get a move on.’ He looked out of the carriage window, then added, ‘But I’d better not push him else we’ll end up in a snowdrift. Eeh! You’re lucky, you know.’ He nodded from one to the other. ‘Going off into the sun. I wish I were coming with you. I never thought I’d say I was fed up with the North, but by! lad, these winters get me down. You know’—he put his head on one side—‘when you’re settled some place you drop me a card. Just put on it: Sun shining, spare bed, and I’ll be over like a shot.’
‘We’ll do that.’ Dan nodded at his father. He too knew what he was trying to do, and his gratitude to him was gathering as a pressure under his smart pearl-buttoned waistcoat, a pressure that could find no release.
Of a sudden Harry sat back against the leather upholstery of the carriage and let out a deep breath. He felt tired, almost exhausted. This business of trying to say the right thing, of aiming to pass off the occasion as if it were ordinary, of wishing he could do something about Brigie’s face, was more wearing than hard labour. Aye, but he had never seen any woman look so hurt in his life as she had looked these last few days. He hoped devoutly that his new daughter-in-law would show more concern for her husband, should he ever need it, than she had done for the woman who had brought her up and given her life to her.
There was a funny streak in that lass. They talked of the Mallen streak; he was beginning to think there was more in it than just market gossip and old wives’ tales. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but he would have thought a man would have wanted more than beauty. Aye, a man did want more than beauty, he wanted warmth, and if there was any in her, Dan would be lucky if he ever warmed his hands at it.
He had taken on something had Dan; but there, it was his life. You bred sons and daughters and what did you know of them? To think that Dan had loved that lass all his life and he hadn’t had an inkling of it until lately. Then there was Katie who had the same warmth in her that had been in her mother; but she was freezing it, damping it down by piling the stack of causes on it; and now she was saying she wanted to marry Willy. Funny, but the more he thought of that match the more he was against it. It was odd but somehow he thought it would have less chance of survival than the one sitting opposite to him. Aw, to hell! He had himself to think about, and he was going to think a
bout it, he had done enough thinking of others. Matilda had told him: ‘Don’t worry about me, lad,’ she had said; ‘don’t wear black at breakfast, dinner, an’ tea. And get yourself some comfort, but with the right one, you know what I mean?’
Aye, he had known what she meant. There had been depths in Matilda he had never reached. He had been a blind man in some ways, ignorant and blind. Still, he’d put a stop to that, and very shortly.
The wedding breakfast was held in the cottage; Miss Brigmore had stood out against Harry’s protests. The meal was plain, almost ordinary, although Mary had done her best; as Harry and Dan were doing now in an effort to keep the conversation going. Even Barbara was forced to help them in defence against Miss Brigmore’s muteness.
The meal over, the healths having been drunk, they rose and went into the sitting room, and there Harry, pulling out a heavy gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, said, ‘Well now, I don’t want to hurry anybody, but if you want to catch that train an’ the state the roads are in you should give yourself an extra hour, I think you should be making a move.’
‘Every…everything is ready, I have only to put on my outer things; would…would you excuse me?’ Barbara actually ran from the room, and Dan and Harry were left looking at Miss Brigmore where she stood supporting herself with her two hands gripping the back of the couch.
Going to her, Dan put his hands gently on her shoulders and said, ‘Try not to worry, Brigie; I’ll…I’ll look after her. And I promise you that if…I mean when we settle some place I will write to you and make arrangements for your coming.’
She could not speak, she could only stare at him and pray inwardly that she would not collapse, not yet awhile.
The Mallen Girl Page 26
