The quickening of the horse’s stride was not perceivable, but he kept urging her.
When the next roll of thunder came he was startled himself for he thought for a moment that Constance had fallen from the horse. He moved back to her side where she was doubled almost in two, her face resting against the horse’s mane, and he leant towards her and put his hand on her shoulder and soothed her, saying, ‘There now, there now, it’s passed. Look, it’s passed.’
As he spoke, the first big drops of rain descended on them and before they had moved a hundred yards the were enveloped in a downpour, so heavy that his body too was now doubled against it.
It was more by instinct than sight that he left the road at the spot where the derelict house stood. Dismounting, he made his way round to her side and, her body still bent, she fell into his arms and he guided her at a run into the dark, dank shelter. Then, leaving her to support herself against the wall, he said, ‘I won’t be a minute, not a minute; I’ll just put them under cover,’ and dashing out, he led the horses into a ramshackle lean-to that had once served as a stable, where he tied them before running back to the house.
Groping his way towards her, he found that her body was no longer bent; she was standing with her back pressed tight against the wall, her hands cupping her face, and he said to her, ‘Come over here, there’s a bench and rough table of sorts. The road travellers use this place as a shelter; there might be some dry wood, we’ll make a fire.’
When he had seated her on the form she clutched at his arm and muttered through chattering teeth, ‘You’re soaked. You…you shouldn’t be soaked.’ Anna had told her that people with the consumption should never get their feet wet, in fact should never be out in the rain; people with consumption should, if they could afford it, go and live in a different climate. ‘Take your coat off,’ she said; ‘it may not have got through.’
He made a small laughing sound at her solicitude, and it held some relief with the knowledge that she had for the moment got over her fear of the storm.
‘I’m all right, don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘You’re like a wet rabbit yourself.’ He pointed to her hat, where the brim was drooping down each side of her face, and he added, ‘A very wet rabbit, its ears in the doldrums.’
When she lifted her hands and took her hat off he said, ‘I would take off your coat an’ all.’
‘No,’ she said as she shivered, ‘I’m cold.’
He turned from her and made his way through the dimness to the far corner of the room where there was a rough open fireplace, and from there he called, ‘We’re in luck, there’s dry wood here, quite a bit, and kindling. You’ll be warm in no time.’
‘Have you any matches?’
‘No; but if I know anything the roadsters will have left a flint around somewhere; they look out for each other, the roadsters do. That is, the regular ones.’
There was a long pause, and then his voice came again, on an excited note now, ‘What did I tell you! In this niche, a box with a flint in it. Here we go.’
As Constance watched the sparks flying from the flint her agitation eased; they would soon have a fire and their clothes would dry. She wished she could stop shivering. Why did storms petrify her? She had tried, oh, she had tried to overcome her fear, but it was hopeless, she seemed to lose control the moment she heard thunder.
‘There you are; look, it’s alight. Come over here and get your coat dried.’
She rose from the form and was making her way towards the flickering light of the tinder when an ear-splitting burst of thunder appeared to explode over the house. When its rumblings died away she was huddled on the floor to the side of the fire, her face buried hard against Matthew’s shoulder; his arms were about her holding her close. When at last the only sound they could hear was the hard pinging of the rain on the slate roof and an occasional hiss as it came down the chimney and hit the burning wood, they still remained closed pressed together.
The wood was well alight and sending the flames leaping upwards before she raised her head and looked into his face and whispered, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, Matthew.’
He made no answer, he was half kneeling, half sitting, as she was. Their positions were awkward and cramped but neither of them seemed to notice it. She did not withdraw from his hold but she stared into his eyes and could not help but recognise the look they held, and read there the reason for the change in him these past months.
As she watched the firelight passing shadows over his corn-coloured hair she had the greatest desire to run her fingers through it, bury her face in it, and she told herself she was a fool, a fool of a girl, not to have recognised what was in his heart, and, what was more terrifying still, in her own. She had known she held a certain special feeling for Matthew; even when she was in love with Will Headley she had still retained this feeling for Matthew, but she had looked upon it as sympathy and compassion for his ill health. And perhaps that is how it had begun; but what it had nurtured was something much deeper.
When he whispered, ‘Oh, Constance! Constance!’ she answered simply, ‘Matthew! Oh, Matthew!’
Still with their arms about each other they slid into a sitting position now, and again they gazed at each other in silence while the fire blazed merrily to its height.
After a period he asked softly, ‘Didn’t you know how I felt about you?’
She shook her head. ‘No; not…not until this moment.’
‘And you, Constance, you, what do you feel for me? Look at me, please…please. Tell me.’
He had to bend his head towards her to hear what she was saying above the noise of the rain which had increased in force. ‘I…I don’t know, Matthew, I really don’t know. It, it can’t be true, I feel it’s unreal. Can one suddenly know in a moment? Things…things like this have to grow.’
‘It’s been growing for years.’
She was looking at him again. ‘But you never gave any sign; why?’
‘How could I? And I shouldn’t now, no, not at this late stage, when I’m getting ready for my grave.’
‘Oh don’t, don’t!’ She put her hand over her mouth now and her head dropped deeply on to her chest.
‘Oh, don’t worry, dear; don’t worry. I shouldn’t have said that. It sounded as if I’m sorry for meself, but nevertheless it’s a fact that’s got to be faced. But…but I’m not sorry you know how I feel; no, I’m not sorry.’
‘You…you could live for years and years.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not years and years; another winter like last and…’
‘No, no.’ She was holding his hands now. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘But Constance,’—he shook his head at her—‘it’s the truth. Yet you know something? I feel happier at this moment than I’ve ever done in me life before. I’ve died a number of deaths already thinking of you marrying Donald. But now it doesn’t seem to matter so much, and…and I don’t feel I’m betraying him by…by telling you how I feel. When you’re married…’
‘I could never marry Donald now.’
‘What! Oh!’ He was kneeling in front of her now, gripping her hands. ‘Oh, but you must, you must. You’re his life; there’s no-one in the world for him but you. I know him, I know him inside out. He’s a strange fellow, possessive, pig-headed, and big-headed, but his feelin’s are as deep as a drawn well, and all his feelin’s are for you.’
As she stared up at him a flash of lightning illuminated the bizarre room and once again she flung herself against him and the impact overbalanced him. When there came the sound as if a thunderbolt had been thrown in through the open doorway she almost buried herself in him, and before the last peal of thunder had died away the inevitable was beginning.
On the bare floor they lay, the fire crackling to the side of them, the rain beating on the tiles and blowing through the paneless windows and the open doorway, and strangely it was he who protested, but silently, yelling at himself, ‘No, no!’ He could never commit this outrage against Donald. Even while
his hands moved over her submissive body his mind begged him to stop before it was too late.
But it was too late, and when the lightning once again lit up the room, her crying out was not against it alone but against the ecstasy and the pain that was rending her body.
When it was over he rolled away from her for a moment and hid his face in his hands and groaned, and she lay inert, her eyes closed, her heaving breath stilled like someone who had died in her sleep.
When of a sudden she drew the breath back into her body again he turned swiftly to her and, enfolding her in his arms, cried, ‘Oh, Constance! Constance, me darling; me darling, me darling.’
She made no move now to put her arms about him, not even when the thunder broke over the house again did she press herself against him; she was spent and her body was no longer her own; she was in it, but not of it. A short while ago she had been a young girl, a prospective bride who was terrified of storms, now she was no longer a young girl, so different was she that she could listen to the thunder unmoved.
It was as if Matthew had read her thoughts, for now he was looking down into her face and talking rapidly, saying, ‘I’m sorry. Oh God above, I’m sorry, Constance. Try to forget it, will you? Try to forget it. If Donald knew he would kill me. Oh aye, he would.’ He was nodding his head at her as if refuting her denial of this. ‘He would slit my throat like he does a pig’s. God! If only it wasn’t Donald. I don’t want to hurt Donald, I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.’
Gently she pressed him away from her, and as if she had performed the function a dozen times before she adjusted her clothes, her manner almost prim; then she said, ‘I could never marry Donald now, but…but I could marry you, Matthew. And…and I could look after you. You…you could take your share of the farm and we could go away perhaps to a new climate.’
For answer he sat back on his hunkers and covered his face with his hands. When he looked at her again he said slowly, ‘I…I could claim no share of the farm, I have put nothing into it. What me father would give me would be of his generosity. But then, then again, were I to leave an’ take you with me, Donald would leave an’ all. I know this; I know it in me heart, he wouldn’t be able to stand a second disgrace, a second rejection. You see, that’s what he’s been suffering from all his life, being rejected. He was a bastard, and all bastards know rejection. Strangely, I know how he feels, and should I take you away the second rejection would hit him worse than the first, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. And what’s more, it would mean the end of the farm, for me father’s a sick man; you’ve seen yourself he’s crippled with rheumatism, he depends on Donald for everything, Donald runs the farm, he is the farm.’
Slowly she rose to her feet, dusting down the back of her skirt as she did so. Then as slowly she walked towards the form and, sitting on it, she put her joined hands on the table and bowed her head over them. And when he came and sat opposite to her and gripped her hands between his she looked at him and asked, ‘Could you bear to see me married to Donald?’
He gulped in his throat twice before answering, ‘I’ll have to, won’t I? There’s nothing else for it. But now it won’t be so bad, for I have part of you that I’ll hold tight to until my last breath. Nothing seems to matter now, although I know it shouldn’t have happened. It’s my fault…my fault…’
As she looked now at his bowed head, she knew that she was seeing not only a sick man but a weak one; he was as weak as Donald was strong. Yet the blame for what had happened was not only his. She knew in her heart that if blame, as such, was to be apportioned then more than half of it should be put to her credit, for without her mute consent he would have got no further than kissing her. Even if he had forced himself upon her she could have resisted him, for in physical strength she was the stronger; but she hadn’t resisted him.
Did she love him? She stared into his flushed face, into the soft tender gaze of his eyes. She didn’t know now, she thought she had before…before that had happened, but now she felt empty, quite empty of all physical feeling. When she returned to normal, would she know then? Only one thing she was sure of at this moment, and that was she couldn’t marry Donald. Nor could she go to the farm now. It would be impossible to look Donald in the face with Matthew there.
She turned her head slowly towards the doorway. The rain was easing now; the thunder was still rumbling, but in the distance. She looked back at Matthew and said, ‘I’ll return home.’
‘No, no,’—his tone held fear—‘you can’t do that; he’s…he’s expecting you. If you’re not there when he gets back tonight he’ll be over first light in the morning.’
‘Well that’s tomorrow. It’ll…it’ll give me time to think. But Matthew, can’t you see, I couldn’t possibly meet him today and spend the night at the farm. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.’
‘Oh, Constance.’ He was gripping her forearms now, his voice trembling as he gabbled, ‘Let things be as they were. What’s happened atween us, let it be like a dream, a beautiful dream. If things were different I’d run off with you this minute; but as I can’t support you I won’t live on you, so it’s no use you bringin’ up your hundred a year. Anyway we both know you’d be a widow in no time.’
‘Oh, Matthew! Matthew!’ She screwed up her face. ‘Don’t keep saying that.’
‘I must ’cos you’ve got to believe it’s the truth. If it wasn’t I wouldn’t be sittin’ here persuading you to go ahead and marry Donald.’
They were both quiet now, their heads bowed, until he began to mumble as if talking to himself, ‘I feel I’ve done the dirty on him though, and it isn’t right, for he’s treated me well over the years; another one in his place, a half-brother with no claim on me father, would have taken it out on me, especially one as strong in body and mind as he is. And…and there’s another thing. I’m goin’ to feel very bad about this later on, but it’ll be nothin’ compared with my feelings if you turn from him. Do you know something, Constance? Look at me. Look at me.’ He shook her arms, and when she looked at him he said, ‘He’s much more in need of you than I am, and God knows I need you, but his need goes deeper than mine.’
She stared at him. He was making excuses. He was a weakling in more ways than one. She turned her gaze towards the fire. The bright glow had dimmed, the thin sticks had dropped to ash leaving red stumps supporting each other. Gradually, like one awakening from a dream, she looked about the room. She could see it as a whole now, for the light was lifting outside. It was a filthy place. She noticed now that there was a smell of excrement coming from some part of it. She looked down at the floor. It was criss-crossed with filth, dried mud, pieces of straw, and broken sticks…Yet she had lain down there and given herself to a man. How could she! How could she! What had come over her? Had her terror of the storm deprived her of her wits? No, no. She had given herself to Matthew because she’d wanted to; with or without a storm she had been ready to give herself to someone. Then why hadn’t she waited for just one more week? She had acted like a wanton, a street woman, giving way to the impulses inside her without thought of the consequences.
It was the thought of the consequences that brought her to her feet, and she gasped, ‘I must, I mean I can’t go on with you, I must go back. You…you can tell him that I was very frightened—and I was, I was, that is the truth—and you had to turn back…I must return home, I must, I must.’
‘Constance.’ He had come to her side now. His hand outstretched appealingly, he said, ‘Please, please.’ But she shook her head and turned away from him and went towards the door, saying loudly, ‘It’s no use, I won’t go on. I can walk back; it will be downhill all the way. That’s it, I’ll walk back.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He caught her hand, and held her still as he stared hopelessly at her. Then saying gently, ‘Come on,’ he led her outside.
The rain had become a mere drizzle. He brought the horses from their shelter and helped her up onto Ned’s back, and there were no more words between them…
They were go
ing down the last slope and were in sight of the cottage when she drew her horse to a standstill and, looking at him, she said, quietly, ‘Don’t come any farther, Matthew. I know your clothes should be dried and you need some refreshment, but I couldn’t bear to give them my explanation in front of you, as…as I’ll have to lie, you understand? I’m…I’m sorry.’
He nodded at her, then got down from his horse and helped her to the ground. His hands still under her armpits, he gazed at her and asked softly, ‘Can I kiss you once more?’
She said to him neither yes nor nay, and she did not respond when his lips touched hers gently; but when he looked at her again her eyes were full of tears and he said brokenly, ‘Aw, Constance, Constance. Aw God! If only—’ then turning round abruptly, he grabbed at the horses’ reins, turned them about, hoisted himself up in Daisy’s saddle, and tugging at her he muttered, ‘Get up there! Get up!’ and Daisy and her companion moved off, their steps slow, steady and unruffled.
She stood on the rough road for a moment watching him, then she swung about and ran. Her skirts held above her ankles, her coat billowing, she ran until she arrived breathless on the road leading to the cottage, and not until she had reached the gate did she pause; and then, gripping it in both hands, she leant over it.
It was like this that Miss Brigmore saw her from the bedroom window. With a smothered exclamation she hurried out of the room, down the stairs, and so out on to the pathway; saying as she met her, ‘Why! Constance, my dear, my dear; what has happened?’
During the journey Constance had rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘I just couldn’t go on, the storm was terrifying. I made Matthew bring me back some of the way. He was very wet, so I wouldn’t let him come any farther than the boar rock.’ But she said none of this, she just flung herself against Miss Brigmore, crying, ‘Anna, Oh! Anna.’
The Mallen Streak Page 16
