Randalls Round (17 page)

If there had been some sound it wouldn’t have been so bad. A groan, a cry for help, even a whisper would have been more – more human. I should have known then that Markham really was there…

I lit a candle. It took me, I knew, a very long time, I fumbled so. But at last I had a warm, friendly light instead of the mocking fantasy of moonlight. I went back.

The room looked just as usual. Markham lay, his brows a little drawn down, his mouth a little open, as if he were puzzled or expostulating – but it was Markham. There was no doubt of that. I felt a warm gush of sheer relief as I saw his familiar face. Oddly enough, I didn’t, even then, feel at all ashamed of my terror. There
had
been something wrong, something appalling, ghastly, in that room. It was gone now, but it had been there…

I went back to bed, but I did not sleep again. I listened, achingly, for a sound that never came.

I felt oddly embarrassed at the idea of meeting Markham in the morning. It was as if I had unwittingly surprised him in some secret, shameful and intimate. And I noticed that he, too, when we met, seemed unwilling to meet my eye. We were both conscious of something – some bond of knowledge that was at the same time a bar. And I think we both wondered what the other knew.

After a pretence of a meal I tried, feebly enough, to get something out of him.

“I don’t think you’d better go out today,” I said, looking at him straight.

He changed colour at once.

“What d’you mean?” he asked, almost defiantly.

“I mean,” I said – carefully, because I wasn’t myself sure of my own meaning – “that I think Mrs. Stokes is right. That enclosure isn’t – healthy.”

He laughed, rather a mirthless, sneering sound.

“Too late to think of that now,” he said; and as our eyes met I saw a difference – his face looked strange, yet familiar, with its cynical, suffering mouth and expressionless eyes.

“Markham!” I cried, dropping all pretence. “Markham – what is it? What have you done? Can’t we..?”

My voice died away.

He had said nothing. His whole face was set, rigid in that blank, cynical, anguished look. It was as if stricken to stone before my eyes. We sat, the spring sun on us, facing each other in horror and despair.

I said no more. I knew he was right – it was too late to avoid the enclosure, with its well and terrible bust. I stayed with Markham all that day, pretending to read as he lay motionless and silent in the air and sunshine of that haunted plot called Simmel Acres. I was tense the whole time, listening with strained ears, stealing furtive glances now at Markham’s set face, now at the marred bust above the clear water of the spring. But nothing happened, except that once I thought I saw on the grass near the couch a crouching shadow… It was not there when I looked sharply up. I had imagined it, perhaps.

But as evening drew on I felt we could not leave it like that. We must do something.

“Markham,” I said, as firmly as I could, “I think I’d better sleep in your room tonight.”

He said nothing. He only turned his head a little and looked at me.

“You were restless last night,” I said feebly. “You might need me.”

“Restless?”
he half whispered, mockery in his tone.

I remembered that rigid form and terrible set face.

“You might need me,” I repeated.

“No. It’s decent of you, Norton – but – no. I-I’d rather you didn’t – I mean – I’m better alone.”

I don’t know what made me say it.

“Where did you get the words from?” I asked.

He stared at me as if he would read my thoughts.

“I don’t know,”
he whispered; and his whole face was suddenly transfigured with sheer appalling panic. “Norton – Norton,” he babbled, clutching at me, “if I knew! If only I knew! I might find others – to undo it – Norton, can’t you think? Where can I find out? What was the book?”

I was immensely relieved. It was far less dreadful put into words.

“I’ll find out,” I said boldly. “There’ll be books – people must know… I’ll ask old Henderson, he’s always working at these things, rites and old magic and things. He’ll know, Markham, sure to. I’ll go over to Oxford first thing tomorrow… ”

“No! No! Tonight, Norton, it must be tonight. The moon’s full tonight. You must, you simply must. You don’t know – I-I can’t…”

He was nearly beside himself.

“I will,” I promised. “I’ll go now. I’ll be in Oxford before eight. I’ll find Henderson. It’ll be all right, Markham, he’s sure to know. It’ll be all right…”

I shall never forget that mad journey to Oxford. I cycled, as there was no quicker way to go; and it took me two hours, panting up hills, sweating as if I were on an errand of life and death. It was, I knew, even more serious than that… And I had no clue – nothing but that Markham’s family had once been connected with the village – that some ancestor had worshipped with the Hellfire Club… that there had been a book… Would it, could it be the faintest use? Could old Henderson – could anyone, pedant or priest, help us?

It seemed hours and hours before I got into the long roads of conventional houses that lie like a web about Oxford. The clocks were striking nine as I reached Carfax.

Henderson was away. Of course he was, in the vac. I stood stunned as the porter carefully explained it to me – I think he thought I was drunk. I could not take it in. Our last chance! The porter saw that it was something serious.

“Something urgent was it, sir?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” I whispered. My lips were almost too dry to speak.

“Well, sir – seein’ as it’s urgent… Mr. ’Enderson ’as a little ’ouse out near Kingston Bagpuize. ’E don’t like visitors there, not in vacation but seein’ as it’s urgent… It ain’t on the ’phone but if you’d care to run out…”

I was down the steps before he finished. He shouted the name of the house after me as I raced off. The moon, moving majestically and remoreselessly up the sky filled me with desperation. I should never, never be in time…

I don’t know what I said to Henderson. I thought I should never make him understand. I don’t now why he listened – why he didn’t write me down as mad, or drunk. But, thank God, he didn’t; he made me sit down and drink something – I don’t know what, I couldn’t taste it, and my hands were shaking so that I couldn’t drink without spilling the stuff – while he listened and nodded and consulted old books. He moved with the slowness of a very old man, taking down one book after another, consulting manuscripts, reading passages, while the minutes ticked away and the night crept on… I can see him now, so old and bent, with his careful gestures clear in the steady lamplight, and the smell of old books in the air…

The clocks were striking eleven as we rushed, in a hired car, out of the dim Oxford streets and struck up the glimmering white road to Simmel Acres Farm. I don’t think we said a word. I know I sat with every muscle taut, straining with impatience, wild hope alternating with despair as I watched the moon rise higher and higher in the clear sky. We should never do it!

The moon was almost at the zenith when at last we reached the farm. I could not stand when I got out – old Henderson had to put his hand under my arm to keep me from falling.

I was making for the door, but he stopped me.

“No,” he said, “the enclosure – the well. We must go there.”

He was muttering to himself, like a man saying prayers, but I knew that he was not praying to any Christian God.

The outer door was shut, but the key was in the lock, and we opened it easily.

The little yard looked quite empty. The royal moonlight flooded the young grass and the trees with leaves just unfolding. Only at the end the penthouse of stone threw a dark, menacing shadow. Beneath it came the tiny tinkle of water in the stone-edged spring. And, half in the shadow, half in the moonlight, I saw Markham lying – Markham, with a white, set face turned up to the moon. And his face was that of the sneering bust above him.

THE friends of Annis Breck (who were not many, and were all female) generally spoke with respect of her Sound Good Sense, her Practical Ability and her Capabilities. Her foes (who were more, but still not many) said that she was hard, commercial and unimaginative. Every one else said that you could never really
know
Miss Breck, she was so — and left it at that. Her idea of opening a hostel for working girls in Burley was, everyone agreed, just like her, though they said so for different reasons. She had done so much, one way and another, for girls. Women and their rights (or, more often, wrongs) had always been her strong point; and of course, added the foes, she always had a keen eye to the main chance. If Annis Breck took up a thing, you might be pretty sure there was money in it. She’d make this hostel a very paying thing, see if she didn’t. But when they heard that she had taken Queen’s Garth, they wondered if she would. They then said that these “business women”…! and again left it at that.

For, they pointed out, Queen’s Garth had stood empty for years. It had been unfortunate in its owners. The last of the original family, old Miss Campbell, was the only survivor of a clan that had lived in the house ever since it was built in the seventeenth century. They had apparently specialised in strong-minded females, who had very occasionally condescended to marry, but had always ruled with a rod of iron, having a deep-rooted suspicion of men and a determination to keep them well under. How they had ever married at all was a marvel; no doubt it had been entirely for practical, and never for romantic, reasons. The family had now died out, it was true, but (said the foes, nastily) it seemed that the tradition of the firm female and the rod of iron was to endure. They pitied the girls, they said.

Then came the friends. Annis was wonderful, they knew that, but had she really
considered?
Did she realise all it
meant?
The house had stood empty so long. The furniture, they knew, had been lovely – Sheraton and Chippendale and all sorts of gems – but it must be simply dropping to pieces now. The house was charming, of course, and dirt cheap, and the rooms beautifully large, but, my
dear! Think
of the work, with all those stairs and twisting passages, and no conveniences to speak of. Besides, there was some story – oh, no one
believed it,
of course, but you know what maids
are.
They’d turn every echo and waving curtain into a ghost. And water, always such a problem in these picturesque old places… Still, Annis probably knew best. Practical, dear Annis!

Annis herself felt not the smallest doubt as to her venture. She never did, which, no doubt, was why so many of them succeeded. She took Queen’s Garth as soon as she saw it, stairs and ghost and water and all. She did not underrate these disadvantages, but she simply accepted them because she knew as soon as she saw the old red house that she “belonged”. Almost unconsciously she felt that; she closed her bargain on the spot.

She meant to open the hostel on New Year’s Day. Alterations must be made, of course, and equally of course they would not be made in time unless she personally saw that they were. You could never trust men to keep their word. So she moved, early in December, into Queen’s Garth, to keep an eye on the men, make curtains, and so on, and arrange everything properly. Organisation, she said, was the key to success. Anything could be done by good organisation.

She said this to Lucy Ferrars, an old friend of W.S.P.U. days who had called to ask Annis to speak at a meeting. Lucy was always getting up meetings and asking Annis to speak at them, and Annis was always irritated sooner or later by Lucy’s absolute lack of the power to organise. Her meetings were never successful. So she repeated her formula about the necessity of organisation,
apropos
of the hostel, but hoping that Lucy would take it to heart. Apparently she didn’t – Annis thought it was that she wouldn’t.

“How
marv’
lous you are,” was all that she said in the bleating voice that irritated Annis so badly. “Marv’lous. And what
perfect
furniture, Annis. So quaint.”

Miss Breck shuddered.

“I s’pose you’ve got it all in here,” pursued Lucy.

Annis gave up the hope of impressing her with the necessity of organisation, and allowed the talk to turn to furniture.

“Oh, no,” she replied, bored but tolerant. “The house is practically all furnished, and it’s all eighteenth century stuff.”

“My
dear!
It must have cost you a
fortune!”
gasped Lucy.

“Not a bit of it. No one wanted it. You see, the furniture goes with the house. Some clause in the old lady’s will – seems it was the rule in the family. It makes it awfully – personal,” she added, half to herself, passing her fingers lightly over the back of an elegant Chippendale chair. “It’s very lucky for me,” she went on, smiling dryly, “that people are so idiotically superstitious. I should never have got the house otherwise…”

She broke off, turning her head sharply.

“What is it?” breathed Lucy, her prominent eyes goggling, her mouth gaping.

“Nothing,” said Annis, relaxing her attitude. “I thought I saw someone – a reflection in my glasses, no doubt. For the moment I thought one of the men had come back… You’ll stay and have some tea, won’t you, Lucy? Bachelor’s Hall, of course, but I make myself very comfortable.”

“Are you all alone?” asked Lucy, still round-eyed.

“Oh, yes. No sense in having maids for one person – especially as I hear they’re going to be hard to keep! But I can cook, you know. You will stay, won’t you?”

“Oh, no, thank you very much,” said Lucy hastily. “I – it’s getting late – it’s dark so very early now. I have such a lot to do – this meeting, you know – I
think
I must go, dear, thank you so much…”

She babbled all the way to the door, and annoyed Annis very much by stopping on the threshold, half in and half out, to press her to come and sleep with her until the house should be ready and there were “girls and maids and people” for company. She gave no reason for this suggestion – Lucy, Annis reflected with amusement, didn’t know the meaning of the word “reason” – but was very persistent and incoherent. Annis got rid of her with difficulty.