The Ballad and the Source (12 page)

I said quickly:

“How did she go?”

“Wild,” said Tilly. Again she looked wandering and astray. “I don't know. It was 'earsay. I lost sight of 'er later.”

“Did you go on seeing her
then
—when she was little?”

“Bless you, yes. I see 'er reg'lar. 'E trusted me—and that was a funny thing, too, why 'e did, I never fathomed it. For 'e got so 'ipped 'e wouldn't trust no one after a bit. That Frances, she stayed some years, then 'e got suspicious she was correspondin' with the mother on the sly—and
she
'ad to go. It was over some little frock or somethink that come from America—addressed to the child—no name or message inside: 'e guessed 'oo it was from and 'eld 'er responsible. Then it was one governess, then another. If 'e didn't give 'em the sack, they sacked theirselves; they couldn't stand it—the watchin' and the worritin'—it got their nerves all of a jangle. But if ever 'e was stuck between one goin' and another comin', 'e'd bring 'er up and leave 'er in our charge. And many's the nice bit of 'oliday she 'ad that way.”

“Did you look after her? Bath her and all that?”

“Yes. I'd bath 'er and keep 'er clothes nice. Many's the little frock I made 'er. It was a understood thing your Grandma should see to that. Madrona she called 'er, like the other. Oh, the things she'd say! She did talk strange sometimes.
‘
You know, Tilly,' she says once,
‘
everybody has a mother. I've got one. She's not dead. But she told so many lies my father had to send her away, or she might have taught me to tell lies too. But the queer thing is,' she says,
‘
I do tell lies sometimes, I don't seem able to help it. So I think she must be watching me somehow, and putting them in my head.' Fancy that from a child! It sounded shockin'.
‘
My father says,' she says,
‘
if he found me out in a lie it would break his heart. He doesn't mind me being stupid or rude or disobedient or anything else,' she says,
‘
only that.'”

A terrible echo stirred. This same paternal threat, expressed in even direr terms—I had heard it only a short while ago from the lips of another child. It seemed that this thing went on and on, like a curse. Liar begot liar; and all their road, forward and back, far back, was cratered with disastrous pits of guilt, haunted by ruinous voices crying vengeance. Lying was not like anything else.

But now, I felt, and trembled to feel, now at last I was getting back to the beginning. The moment was approaching when I should light on the link I sought, and, with one click, hold the whole circle in my hand.

Instinct led me to say:

“Did you take her out in the Park?”

“Many and many a time. Through 'Yde Park into Kensington Gardens. With a bag of crusts to feed the gulls—she'd never go without that. Nasty scrawkin' ravengeous things—I 'ated the sight of 'em. They'd come all round 'er —and the sparrers too. It was there,” said Tilly casually, meditatively, “I first sor 'er. One bright windy autumn day.”

“Saw who?”

“It was by the Round Pond—I'd seen a woman, lady, that is to say, standin' a little way off under a tree, as it might be watchin' us. But I didn't take 'er in much, except to remark she 'ad on a funny sort of a blue cloak wrapped round 'er. But when
it
was time to go 'ome we passed 'er quite close. … And then I thought to myself: Now where in the world … and then what with 'er chatter I put it out of my mind. Next day, bless me if she wasn't there again, standin' still and just watchin'. I thought: Well, that's funny, you do take an interest, I wonder why. I didn't quite like it. There's plenty of people watches the pretty fashionable-dressed children in the Park, and this one was worth a look too, she 'ad a cherry corded velvet coat and bonnet that year—but this seemed a sort of special watchin'. She 'ad a bit of a cold for a day or two after that and we didn't go out. But the next time—there she was again! And the child says to me: ‘Oh, look, Tilly,' she says,
‘
there's the lady in the blue cloak again.' She 'adn't let on before she'd even noticed 'er. And oh Lor'! it all come over me then. I felt myself go like a bath of cold water runnin' down the plug 'ole. I thought: Whatever shall I do if she makes to come and speak? But she didn't. I made some excuse it was later than I thought for, and ketches 'old of 'er 'and and starts to scurry off 'ome; and she just stood there a little way off, like a statute, not budgin' a inch to foller us. My 'eart was bouncin' in and out of my throat like a rubber ball, and I says to myself:
‘
You daft idiot you! Where's your brains and where's your eyesight?
'
But I was always a bit short-sighted. And it was close on nine years since I last see 'er. And oh, she 'ad changed! Thin!—she was a skelinton. And 'er 'air done different
—
that changes a woman. So when I got back I goes straight to your grandmother. She listens and she thinks; then she says: ‘You have acted quite rightly, Tilly, in mentioning it, but I think you must be mistaken. When I heard of her last she was far away the other side of the world. You look quite upset,' she says.
‘
Go and get yourself a nice hot cup of tea in the kitchen at once. If you're nervous,' she says,
‘
I'll take her out myself for a few days and see what I make of this blue-cloak lady. Anyway,' she says, ‘she's to go to tea to-morrow with Mrs. Venables' children. They're calling for her in the carriage, so she'll be quite safe,' she says, smilin'. So that night I felt a bit easier in my mind.”

“And
were
you mistaken?” I said in agitation.

“Ah!” said Tilly slowly, drawing out the suspense. “Was I or wasn't I?
Next afternoon the carriage come about three as arranged, and off she went, ever so worked up. Whenever it came to a little treat or a party she'd light up and go off like a packet of squibs. She'd be like a little mad thing. It was the dull screwed-down life she led—and she was volatile by nature. I thought: ‘Well, I've got the afternoon free—I'll pop down to the kitching and do my ironin'.' Round about four comes a ring at the front door bell. As Fate would 'ave it, Stevens was out for 'is afternoon.
‘
There!
'
I says.
‘
That'll be from the dressmaker. It was promised for four. I'll run up and take it in.' So up I run—I was very light and quick on my feet in them days—opens the door—and there she stands! In that blue cloak. Pale. Oh, I nearly fell down in a swoond on the mat. I 'ung on to the door-'andle, and: ‘Oh! Miss Sibyl,' I gasps out,
‘
whatever 'ave you come after?
'
I forgot myself, see? She gives me a smile—she did 'ave a lovely smile, it was enough to melt a stone.
‘
Tilly, Tilly,' she says,
‘
don't look so scared. I'm not a ghost—or a tiger escaped from its cage. I'm the same Sibyl you used to know. How wonderful,' she says,
‘
that you should open the door to me. It's like coming home again. You haven't changed a little bit.' ‘Oh, Miss Sibyl,' I says,
‘
you 'ave.' She 'ad 'old of my 'and. Mind, she was a beauty still—but she wasn't a girl no longer. She 'ad a look on 'er … as if she'd seen a lot and learnt a lot—not all pleasant neither. You couldn't call it exactly 'ard—more stern. Slow to brighten up.
‘
So it
was
you in the Park,' I says.
‘
Yes,' she says.
‘
Forgive me if I frightened you. You see, I felt I must watch Ianthe first from a little way off—before I came close to her. So that I'd take in all the outlines of her nature—
feel
what she was like. So that when I touched her she wouldn't feel strange at all to me; and that would help her, on her side, to know me quickly—
remember
me quickly, I should say.' I've never forgot those words she spoke.”

Tilly sank into reverie, as if amazed, half-incredulous all over again; then with a heavy sigh and a shake of the head went on
:

“There I stood gawpin' at 'er, not knowin' what answer to make to 'er.
‘
Tilly,' she says,
‘
it was so
extraordinary
to see you two together. Yet so natural—so right. It was like waking from a fever and seeing the ordinary sweet day. My dear,
dear
Madrona
!
I knew she was the one person in the world I could trust—however long I had to be away.' With that she steps inside and says: ‘Shall I go and find her, Tilly, or had you better prepare her? I don't want to give her a shock.' And at that very moment your grandmother come down round the bend of the stairs, just up from 'er afternoon rest, and see 'er. She stops like she'd been shot.
‘
Sibyl!'
‘
Madrona
!'
she cries out. And she lets 'er cape fall on the floor and runs into 'er arms.”

I felt my eyes and throat smart intolerably, and saw Tilly's tears fall down.

“
‘
Five years,' I 'eard one say; and the other: ‘I told you I'd come back.' I see them sort of wander off into the drorin' room with their 'eads down, leanin' close, and not another word spoke. I 'ad to mop my own eyes, I can tell you. But all the time I was sayin' to myself: ‘Thank 'Eavens, the child ain't in the 'ouse.'”

“Why?” I said painfully. “Didn't you want her to see her?”

“No,” said Tilly stiffly, “I did not.”

“
Did
she see her?”

“No. She didn't see 'er.” She was silent; then: “It couldn't be,” she said. For a moment, strong emotion charged her old crackling voice with depth and richness. “I'll see 'er like that on my death-bed.”

Silence. I stared out of the window and saw the chestnut trees lift, blow upward ecstatically all together in a gust of evening breeze. The setting sun was gliding their trunks from somewhere out of sight.

“Like how, Tilly?” I said at last.

“At 'alf-past five I was due to start to fetch back Miss I-anthe­­­­. It was just a little walk across the square, up into Oxford Street and over into Manchester Square; and we was to take a cab back, of course. I run up the area steps and come out on the pavement just by the front door—wonderin' to myself would she be gone or not when we got back, but I'd 'ad my orders, and nothink different said. At that very momint the front door flies open—and out she comes.

“She stands there at the top of the steps; and 'er eyes seemed to pierce right through me—enough to freeze your
marrer.
Talk of wild tigers—that's what she put me in mind of.
Glarin'.
She stands there with 'er 'ead up—it was gettin' on for dusk, but I could see 'er face all stiff and white. Then she comes down the steps and away she goes, like as if she was sleep-walkin', in the opposite
direction
to me.

“
‘
Gawd 'elp us,' I thought.
‘
There's murder in that face.' I was in two minds to go on, or to run back and take a look in the drorin' room, but I says to myself: ‘Mind your own business,' and puts my best foot foremost. Well, I got there and fetched 'er and back all right. She runs in to say 'er good-nights as usual. Then she comes up and I sees to 'er and puts 'er into bed like I always done. She was very good considerin', a bit over-excited, but no trouble. Then my bell rings upstairs—meanin' I was wanted in the bedroom. So I goes along. She was settin' at 'er dressin'-table. I took one look and saw she was upset. She showed it very quick—she was always delicate. She looked wore out.
‘
The black tea-gown, Tilly,' she says. It was velvet with cream Valanceens lace in the neck. It suited 'er. So I brought it, and the slippers to match.
‘
Well, Tilly,' she says,
‘
you were quite right, you see.'
‘
Oh, Madam,' I says,
‘
I been ever so worried. It's been on my mind, per'aps I ought to 'ave said you wasn't at 'ome.'
‘
No, no indeed,' she says.
‘
I should have regretted it bitterly if I had not seen her.'
‘
What a change in 'er!” I says. She lets out such a 'eavy sigh.
‘
Since that time I saw her in France,' she says,
‘
she never sent me one single line or message—not one. I guessed it was because I'd warned her what would happen; and because my warnings had come true. I thought she had chosen to cut the whole past clean away from her, and turn forward to build a new life. I thought it would have been like her to root even Ianthe right out of her and bury her with the rest of her dead marriage; and pass on. She never could bear a failure.
…'
I went on brushin' 'er 'air, and after a bit she says: ‘For five years she'd had one idea,
one,
fixed in her mind: to get Ianthe back.'
‘
Ah,' I says,
‘
I knew it.'
‘
Did you?
'
she says.
‘
How little I understand people. I quite misjudged her.' She stops there. I didn't like to ask too straight out what 'ad passed; so after a bit I says: ‘Might she still be livin' with that one, then?
' ‘
Oh no,' she says,
‘
that finished long ago. And unfortunately she has not married again.' I thought to myself: if not married, not livin' in what you might call single strictness, not by a long chalk; but I didn't like to say so.
‘
She's had a bad time, Tilly,' she says. I looked at 'er in the glass, and saw tears in 'er eyes.
‘
She told me she'd
starved.'
Well, I thought, per'aps she did, per'aps she didn't. What some calls starvin' is a square meal to others. … All the same,” said Tilly reflectively, emerging from reminiscence, “per'aps she did. I wouldn't put nothink past that one.”