The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (27 page)

Hadstock was sane again and on the mend when Richard arrived, unannounced, bringing Mr Mundford to keep Christmas with him. Of the accident he said only that it was entirely Hadstock's fault, he had been careless and oversure of himself. And he expressed surprise that the bailiff had been accommodated in the guest-room.

'With three good rooms out of use on account of the alterations, and Christmas upon us, I should have thought even you would have had better sense.'

'For a time he was very ill, and I was helping to look after him; it was convenient for me to have him in this part of the house.'

'I wonder you did not think of my room; that is nearer, and has a communicating door!'

There was nothing, Linda knew, behind that remark save a jeering sarcasm; their own disastrous physical relationship, for which he held her entirely to blame, had convinced him that she was cold and without sexual attraction, and he was incapable of jealousy where she was concerned. Nevertheless, she was obliged to turn away quickly to hide the dark wave of colour which ran upwards from her throat to her hair.

'I'll see that the room is cleared and cleaned immediately. It shall be ready for Mr Mundford in less than an hour,' she said.

Hadstock was already up and dressed, the coat sleeve taut over the bandaged arm. She had seen very little of him since he returned to his senses with the fever's abatement, confining her visits to brief inquiries made at the open door and leaving the care of him to Alfred. Now, in order to regain a footing in safe everyday terrain once more, she said briskly: 'I'm afraid it won't be a very cheerful Christmas for you, Hadstock, You must allow me to send you up some festive fare.'

'I've already arranged with old Widow Hayward of the Waste to come and do things for me, my lady. And now, before I go, I must thank you for all the care, and the attention, and the kindness. Very few ladies would have ...'

'Oh, I did very little,' Linda said hurriedly. 'Alfred bore the brunt of it.'

Hadstock looked into her face as he said, 'Alfred has been most conscientious.' Then, shifting his gaze, he went on, 'But I did ask him whether I talked much nonsense, and he said he hardly knew, as you sat with me, my lady, most of that time. A man at such a moment has no guard on his tongue...and if I used rough language or--or said anything to offend you I do most humbly beg your pardon and ask your forgiveness.'

'You cannot claim credit or take blame for the bulk of what you said, Hadstock,' Linda said lightly. 'You quoted from Shakespeare most of the time; so fluently and extensively that I began to wonder whether at some time you had been on the stage.'

The years of enforced falsity with Richard had not been wasted, she reflected. The words had exactly the right ring and the hint of curiosity gave the final touch of authenticity.

'Why, no,' Hadstock said, relief plain on his face. 'I've not done that. But I did once have a schoolmaster who would assign long passages of Shakespeare to be learned by heart as punishment. It seemed barbarous at the time, and, later on, blasphemous--but if it gives a man something to babble about when he's in delirium it has served its turn.'

The Christmas season passed more pleasantly than she had anticipated. Richard donned his affable face again. Invitations which she had not known whether to accept or refuse, not knowing whether Richard would be home or not, were hastily accepted; other invitations as hastily issued. There was the usual Christmas feast for the villagers and the distribution of the 'Christmas dole'. She was saved by these activities, and by Mr Mundford's soothing presence, from the trivial persecutions which Richard's company ordinarily involved. The two men were now on Christian-name terms and seemed to have endless things to talk about; often they sat up far into the night. Frequently they were joined by Mr Montague, who had been introduced to Mr Mundford at one of the gatherings and who seemed to be as unaccountably charmed by him as Richard was.

The subject of enclosure seemed to have receded to the background of Richard's mind and was only mentioned once when someone asked how things were going. Richard replied carelessly that everything had gone without a hitch and that the commissioners were expected to begin their work of assigning claims early in the New Year.

For Damask, too, this was a pleasant Christmas. Last year she had been a humble receiver of 'doles', this year she was a giver. When the carol-singers, with their lanterns, came and hoarsely chanted the traditional songs at the door of the Dower House, it was very pleasant to open the door and see their faces as she revealed herself in her velvet dress and the little fur wrap which she had put round her shoulders before opening the door on the cold night. Most of them were Waste dwellers; she knew their names, they knew her, although Amos's prejudices and then her own Methodist ways had precluded any real familiarity. There had always been a slight gulf, and often, in her childhood, she seemed to be on the wrong side. Now, thanks to the miracle, the gulf was a great chasm, and she was very much on the right side of it. She distributed pennies and oranges and mince-pies with a regal air. The youngest of Matt Ashpole's brood, a boy of twelve who had inherited his father's shrewd little eyes as well as a full measure of his cheekiness, had fully made up his mind that when his turn came he was going to say 'Thank you, your ladyship,' just to show her. But when his pennies and orange and mince-pie were handed to him his courage deserted him suddenly and he said, 'Thank you, miss', as meekly as the others.

On Christmas Eve Damask, carrying a large basket, walked across to the cottage on the edge of the Waste. She had made regular visits ever since the one when she had found Amos alone and he had 'remarked upon' her changed appearance. Since then she had, so far as possible, timed her visits to fit in with his absences. He was still working on the chapel each morning--or at least each morning until so much neglected work had accumulated that he was obliged to stay at home and deal with it. Twice during that late autumn and early winter he had been at home when she paid her visit, and she had discovered that he was one person who would not be overawed, or intimidated, or stared down. He scolded her about her appearance, rebuked her roundly for ever taking a job where she could not get leave to attend chapel at least once a month, and inquired sharply about the gifts of tea and sugar and cheese and bacon which she brought to Julie. Did Miss Parsons know the stuff had been brought out of the house? Were they goods regarded as part of her wages, or what? She directed upon Amos the stare which had disconcerted Sir Richard Shelmadine, quelled the Saunders, silenced Matt Ashpole; and Amos stared back, grave, concerned, reproachful. On another visit, reaching the cottage door and hearing within the sound of Amos's hammer, she had turned back, giving as her reason--though honest enough to know that it was, in reality, not the reason--the excuse that with Amos there Julie's pleasure in the visits was marred. When she found her mother alone the visits were delightful. Julie gloated over the dresses, admired the hair-dress, was delighted that Damask's hands had grown smooth and white. She accepted the gifts with a pathetic humility and never questioned Damask's right to bestow them. They would brew tea and drink it together and everything was cosy and pleasant. 

Early in December, when Bennett slipped on an ice-lacquered path and hurt his knee and had to have the doctor's attentions, Damask spoke to the doctor about Julie's rheumatism, and next time he passed--on his way to visit the bailiff at the Manor --he left at the Dower House two large bottles of mixture which, he assured Damask, had been most efficacious in the relief of cases similar to the one about which she had consulted him. One was a medicine; one a general tonic. The medicine was a sweep syrup, heavily loaded with opium, and Julie did not exaggerate when she said that it relieved her aches and pains; the tonic, which smelt strongly of cloves, had a base of cheap brandy, and she was speaking the truth when she said it made her feel a great deal better. Every time she took a dose of either mixture, brewed a cup of tea, fried a slice of bacon or nibbled a piece of cheese Julie was happily amazed at the way things had turned out. Damask was a good girl, and she had been rewarded; far better off, she was, than that slatternly Sally Ashpole, with a baby on her hands, a husband back in his old wild drinking ways, and the whole family with notice to quit at Lady Day next March and at their wits' end where to go. It was, Julie reflected with fustian philosophy, very queer how things that looked bad turned out for the best after all--and the other way about, come to that!

So on Christmas Eve she welcomed Damask with joy and accepted all the gifts in the basket with expressions of pleasure, and Damask, walking back to Dower House, was well pleased with herself.

Just before he left for London again Richard said, 'Oh, by the way, a box will arrive. Have it put, just as it is, in Alec's room--they're some things he wants us to store for him.' The box arrived a few days later; a heavy black iron-bound trunk, furnished with solid locks. It was carried up as Richard had ordered and she thought no more about it. She had a new interest in life.

Three or four days after Richard's departure, when Hadstock, still holding one arm in stiff immobility, came for his evening interview, he said: 'Do you like dogs, my lady?'

'Oh yes, very much.'

'But not in the house, perhaps?'

She was embarrassed, hesitated, and then decided to be frank; after all, there was nothing unnatural about disliking dogs and she need not go into any detail.

'I do,' she said, 'but Sir Richard objects to them in the house.'

She remembered, with distaste, that time when, the enchantment over, she had tried to free herself of slavery; Richard was set to subject her then against her will and had found, in her pet spaniel, a tool ready to hand. Twice she had given the dog away, twice it had found its way home--once from a considerable distance. She had then paid somebody to shoot it, and had never since had any pet, unless the golden pheasants could be so regarded.

'I rather thought,' Hadstock said, 'that a dog'd be company for you on your walks and evenings when you're alone here. And I had the chance of getting hold of something rather unusual--but of course if Sir Richard ...'

'What is it? What kind?'

'Would you care to look at it, my lady?' He went to the door, opened it and spoke, and in walked, with immense dignity, a dog that seemed, to Linda's astonished eyes, as large as a donkey; it was pure white all over and had a thick glossy pelt.

'How perfectly beautiful,' Linda said as the animal paused just inside the room and took stock of its new surroundings. At the sound of her voice it looked at her and then moved over to Hadstock and laid its head for a moment against his hand.

'He's used to me now. I've had him since Christmas Eve. I had thought...for Christmas, my lady; but perhaps in the circumstances it was just as well.'

'Oh, but I should love to have him. He's so beautiful and would be such company. But it is...I mean dogs get fond of you and then it is rather difficult to find them a place where they can be happy when someone who doesn't care for them...Oh, you know what I mean, Hadstock.'

A glimmer of understanding, more profound than was justified by anything she had said, showed for a moment on Hadstock's face, and then, impassive again, he said: 'Well, he knows me now, and I'll see him every evening. I could always take him home with me if that seemed desirable.'

'Oh, on those terms I could have him. That would be such pleasure. Thank you, Hadstock, thank you. Now do please sit down and tell me all about him, his name and everything.'

Of the dog's breed Hadstock spoke freely. His grandparents were foreign dogs, of a kind originally bred in the Pyrenees to protect sheep from wolves; their courage had been proved time and time again. The name of this one was Simon; he was eight months old and wouldn't grow any larger, though he would thicken out somewhat. How and where he had come by him Hadstock seemed to slur over--someone he knew, he said, had imported two of the dogs and hoped to make the breed popular in England----

'But in that case...I mean anything new is always so very expensive,' Linda said.

'He didn't cost me anything, my lady. And even if he had I should still be very deeply in your debt.'

'Oh, nonsense,' Linda said. 'I am now very deeply in yours--for the kind thought as well as the dog. Will he come to me, do you think? Simon. Simon.'

'Go to her,' Hadstock said, speaking to the dog as though it were a person. 'You belong there now.'

A faint, far echo of something that same voice had said about belonging, something that the man did not know he had ever said, stirred in Linda's mind. She felt the colour in her face again and was glad that at that moment the dog left Hadstock's side and walked towards her. She bent over him until she was composed enough to go through the silly evening ritual.

After that the dog went with her everywhere and slept on a rug beside her bed. His allegiance was soon entirely transferred to her, and though he greeted Hadstock in a friendly fashion he would not leave Linda's side even when Hadstock entered.

He was by her side one morning as she came out of her own room and saw that the door of Mr Mundford's-- ordinarily closed--was open and that a maid was within it, giving it the 'turn out' to which even empty guestrooms are subjected in well-regulated households. Linda remembered that she had something to say to the maid, so she went into the room and began, 'Oh, Annie, I wanted to tell you ...' She broke off and sniffed. 'What a peculiar smell. Is it the polish you are using?'

The girl, who had been polishing the floor, had risen to her feet, still holding the cloth.

'No, my lady. It's wearing off now--the smell, I mean. It was something the gentleman used. It used to be awful in the mornings when he was here.'

'Open the window.' The girl turned to do so and let out a startled exclamation. Linda turned to her and, following the direction of the gaze, saw that Simon was advancing towards the trunk. His attitude was strange, he crouched down so that his belly fur almost brushed the carpet as he advanced; his ears were flat to his head, his tail low. Within a foot of the trunk he paused and began to growl, far back in his throat; then, as Linda and the maid watched he made a different sound, a shrill kind of yelp, twirled about and dashed from the room.