The Dwelling Place, page 26
And now Matthew asked the question she had asked of Clive, ‘Why?’
‘’Cos’—she looked down and wagged her head—‘he’s, he’s sorry for what he did.’
‘Huh! God!’
She brought her eyes quickly up to his. ‘He is, Matthew, he is. I…I was terrified of him, scared out of me wits at the sight of him, until…until a little while ago when he stood there an’ I seemed to see him not as a devil any longer but just like, well, anybody else.’
‘But he’s not like anybody else, an’ you know that. You know it only too well. And if he says he’s goin’ to do something for you let me tell you, Cissie, he’s not doin’ it for nothing. They don’t, not them lot. You be careful, it could be some kind of trap, an’ I’m warning you.’
‘What kind of trap could it be if he gives me the bairn back?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t had time to think, but I tell you, be on your guard; what he did once he could try on again…’
She pushed her chair back and got to her feet, staring at him the while, and he said defiantly, ‘Well, I’m sorry, but…but I don’t trust any of them.’
She turned away and when there was a silence between them she muttered, ‘Will you have a drop of tea? It’s fresh made.’ Then, ‘What brings you over at this time of day?’
Now he sat down and, bending forward, stared into the fire and said, ‘I think she’s goin’ out of her head. I…I came over ’cos William told me that he had seen her as he and Straker were coming back in the cart from Gateshead. He saw her mounting the fells in this direction, and…and I was afraid.’ His head went lower and his voice went into a low growl as he ended, ‘I’m afraid all the time now…Cissie’—he turned round—‘why don’t you move? Look, I can get you a place, in Jarrow or Shields or anywhere round about.’
She stopped with the teapot in her hand, but she didn’t look at him as she said, ‘I could be moving. If I get the bairn back he says I’ve got to move into a respectable district and…and have him educated.’
‘And he’ll pay for it all?’ He was on his feet now.
‘Well—her head was up and her voice was harsh—‘it stands to reason that I can’t, doesn’t it?’
‘Look.’ He put out his hand and pointed his finger at her. ‘I’m warnin’ you. You be careful; men like him don’t promise houses to people like you—now that’s putting it bluntly—unless they’re after something.’
‘He’s only trying to pay for what he did.’ She was shouting at him.
‘That’s what he says. Oh my God!’ He held his brow for a moment; then asked in a quieter tone, ‘You want to get away from here?’ And she said softly now, ‘Aye, Matthew; I’m sick to the heart of me at the thought of another winter.’ And when he came and stood close to her and said, ‘Well, let it be me who’ll fix it for you,’ she looked up at him and said quietly, ‘Not if I take the child with me.’ She could have added, ‘And not if I don’t either, not as long as you’re married, and her almost going off her head as it is.’
He swung round from her now and marched towards the door while thrusting on his hat, but when he had opened it he turned to her once more and said, ‘Keep the door bolted, and keep a lookout. And I’m not only meaning with regards to her.’ And on that he was gone.
Seven
Clive went into Newcastle to see the solicitor—not his father’s solicitor, but one of his own choosing.
The firm of Weir and Dixon was well established and dealt with a number of county families, and Mr Weir wasn’t unused to the request the young man made. It was to the effect that he should look for a house for him, a small establishment of eight to ten rooms with a garden, the whole to be in a secluded spot in a healthy district. Also, that he wanted papers to be drawn up to the effect that one thousand pounds a year was to be allotted to a certain lady in support of herself and her son. The purchase of the house, the furnishings, and the maintenance in the future of the entire establishment were to come out of a separate fund.
Mr Weir assured the young gentleman that his wishes would be attended to with the utmost speed, but it might take a few days, or even a week or so, to find such an establishment. Nevertheless, he had no doubt whatever that it could be found.
Clive impressed upon him that the matter needed speedy attention, then left, and went to his father’s club, where he ate a small meal and drank a great deal; and as dusk was falling he was assisted into the coach by Bowmer and driven back to the Hall.
The following day he was late in appearing at breakfast, and was favoured by a scowl from his father as he took his seat at the table and an almost disdainful look from Isabelle, which latter amused him. His fiery sister was a very tame person these days, one could almost say a motherly person. How would she react to the news that he was taking the child away, giving it back to its rightful mother? He didn’t ask himself whether she would be hurt because he didn’t care if she was hurt or not; for the truth he’d had to face a long, long time ago was that he really disliked his sister, he hated some part of her, and the hate stemmed from the day she had laughed, and cried to him, ‘Well, why don’t you? Go on!’ and had leaned against the tree and finished, ‘You’re frightened. You never have, have you?’ Without her taunting he never would have, even then; and he knew now, even more so than he did then, that there was something unnatural, something bad in the make-up of a woman who could witness such a deed.
So, feeling like this, he saw her act of mothering the boy as just that, an act. If he had been told at this moment that he could be proved wrong he would not have believed it; it needed action on her part to convince him, and he had it later that day.
The day before, much to his father’s annoyance, he had refused the invitation to join him and Isabelle in the shoot on Bellingham’s estate, and his father was now demanding in a tone heavy with exasperation, ‘What is the matter with you? You enjoy your shoot, don’t you?’ to which he replied, ‘Yes, but I’m not feeling inclined that way at present. How long is it on for?’
‘The week.’
‘Then I may accompany you tomorrow.’
Later, Isabelle had stood at the top of the steps pulling on her gloves and she allowed her father to descend almost to the bottom before she turned to Clive and said under her breath, ‘What has come over you? You’re acting like a bore; you should go back to the sea, you’d be more at home there.’
‘Quite right, quite right.’ His lips moved into the twisted smile. ‘And I’m thinking seriously of doing just that.’
Her eyes widened slightly as she said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous; you seem to forget you have taken on a new responsibility.’
‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten that.’
‘You surprise me! Then may I ask that during the time I…we are out you could force yourself to go and see the child?’
‘Yes, yes, you could.’ He bowed his head to her. ‘I may even go further than that. I may take him for a walk; it’s a very nice day.’ He looked up into the bright sky. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll take him for a walk.’
‘Oh!’ She went down the steps, her riding crop whipping against her leather boots.
He watched them ride away, then turned indoors. She had set the germ of a thought alive in his mind and he said to himself, ‘Why not? Why not?’ It would be a prelude to the final act; it would show him the child’s reaction to her and the place. Not that he would allow the child to live there; but it wouldn’t do any harm for him to see it, as young as he was.
Early memories left an impression; he could remember happenings in his own life right back to when he was two years old.
But he did not immediately put his plan into action. Rather, he ordered himself and the child an early lunch and informed the nurse that he would not require her to attend them on their walk that afternoon.
So it was around two o’clock when the nurse brought the child down to the hall. He was muffled to the eyes against the cold; he wore white kid boots and white gaiters. These came well up under his three flannel petticoats. He wore a blue woollen dress heavily embroidered with silks, and over this a blue melton cloth coat lined with fur; on his head was a bonnet-shaped hat to match, out of which his cheeks poked like two rosy apples.
He held out his hand to his father, saying, ‘Are we going to the sea, Papa?’ and Clive replied, ‘No, not today; just for a walk.’
‘Are we going to the farm?’
‘Perhaps.’
The child looked up at him solemnly now and asked, ‘Will you take me on your big ship one day, Papa?’ And to this Clive answered with a laugh, ‘Now that’s more than likely, more than likely.’
When they reached the beginning of the drive to the Lodge he swung the child up into his arms and walked rapidly along it, and Richard, looking about him excitedly, cried, ‘This is where the rabbits are?’
‘Yes, this is where the rabbits are.’
At one point on the road the child said, ‘Is this the way the carriage goes, Papa, when we go to the sea?’ and Clive answered, ‘It is indeed.’ He found it difficult to talk with the child. One moment he saw him as a baby, the next as a little boy very advanced for his age, for he talked incessantly, and very distinctly; almost, Clive thought, like his father. And he was forever asking questions about everything he observed. He did not like to confess that he wasn’t at ease with the boy. When the child looked at him now it was as if he were reading his thoughts, for he said quite suddenly, ‘Do you like me, Papa?’
Clive blinked, smiled, and moved his head jocularly before he answered this probing question. ‘Of course I like you. Why do you ask such a question?’
‘Because Nanny says you’re not like a real papa.’
‘Oh, she does, does she?’ He pursed his lips. ‘Why am I not like a real papa?’
‘I don’t know, but that is what she said.’
‘Did she say that to you?’ His face was straight now.
‘No, Papa. She was talking to Radcliffe while they were attending to the bathwater.’
‘Do you think I’m a real papa?’
He watched his son hesitate before saying, ‘I don’t know…’ then add mischievously, ‘but I would like to go on your ship.’ And at this Clive put his head back and laughed.
They were well on the fells now. They passed the stone quarry; then, a few minutes farther on, they rounded a bluff, and there in the distance was the dwelling.
The child saw it immediately and cried, ‘Look, Papa! Stables.’ And Clive said, ‘They’re not stables, Richard, that is a house. I am taking you to see’—he paused—‘the lady who lives there.’
As he came nearer the dwelling he saw two small girls carrying water, and when they caught sight of him one of them dropped her bucket and ran helter-skelter into the house.
He was still carrying the child when he approached the door, and there she was standing framed in the opening, her eyes fixed on them as if she were beholding a vision. To put matters straight right away, he said quickly, ‘We have only come to pay you a visit, we were out walking.’ He watched her mouth open and close; then her head moved downwards in a nod, and she stepped backwards into the room. Now he put the child down on the ground and, taking his hand, led him forward and into the dwelling. Inside, he looked down at his son and said, ‘Say how do you do’; and the child, holding out his hand to Cissie, looked up into her face and, in a voice that was almost as strange to her as to be foreign, said, ‘How do you do, Ma’am?’ And when the lady didn’t make any reply, only held his hand tightly, he added, as he had been taught to do, ‘I hope you are well.’ At this she slowly released his hand and looked at Clive, and he again said, uneasily now, ‘We were out for a walk; I thought it would be a kind of introduction.’
‘Yes.’ She moved up the room. Her eyes still on the child, but speaking to Clive, she said, ‘Will you take a seat?’ And he went and sat down and he looked at the four little girls staring at the visitor and was about to say, ‘Wouldn’t you like to play?’ when he had the thought they could be verminous, but then dismissed the idea. She wasn’t verminous—he’d lay his life on that—and she’d never allow them to be. He wondered in passing how she came to be so different from the types in the hamlets and villages; perhaps living up here in the clean raw bareness of the moor had something to do with it. Whatever it was that had made the difference, he knew in his own mind that she was different, and for a moment he saw her dressed as Isabelle was dressed and visualised her beauty enhanced a thousandfold. He also imagined she would be educable.
He said now to the child, ‘Would you like to play with the little girls, Richard?’ And Richard, smiling broadly, said, ‘Oh yes, Papa.’ He did not often have children to play with and this indeed was a surprise to him. When he held out his hand to Nellie, who was nearest to him in size, she glanced up at Cissie; and Cissie nodded to her, and she took the boy’s hand and allowed him to tug her down the room and out through the open door.
When the other children rushed after them, Cissie, as if just coming awake, flew to the door and cried at them, ‘Be careful! Play gentle. And don’t go away from the flat. Hear me now.’ Then she turned into the room again and walked slowly to the table, and standing there, she said simply, ‘Thanks.’
‘I…I thought it better he should see you before the final arrangements were made. My solicitor tells me that it may take a week or two to find a house, but I would imagine you should be well installed before Christmas.’
She now walked along the side of the table and, staring at him, her head shaking, she said, ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ and to this he answered, ‘There’s no need to say anything. I…I have already told you why I’m doing this.’
His eyes were looking straight into hers, and she lowered her lids and after a moment muttered, ‘I…I was thinkin’, what if he doesn’t take to me? And…and the change. What if he frets?’
‘He’s only a child, a baby; he’s still young enough to forget about everything over there. And…and he’ll have young children to play with. This he has never had. His life is peopled with adults; it is not good for him.’
‘What…what does your father say?’
‘He doesn’t know yet.’
‘He’ll never let it be.’ She moved her head slowly, and he answered, ‘He has no power to stop it. He himself saw to it that I recognised the child as mine, gave it my name, and am responsible for it. He’s mine to do with what I will; and I will to hand him to his mother.’
Again they were looking at each other; then again her lids shaded her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of this man, who was young, yet not young. Only one thing she knew, and in a way this surprised her: she was no longer afraid of him. She didn’t actually know what her other feelings were towards him, but she did know that she no longer stood in deep fear of him.
A silence fell between them, and he broke it by asking softly, ‘What is your name?’
She was for saying ‘Cissie,’ then she gave him the name by which she was christened and which she had never heard spoken but once, and that by her father: ‘Cecilia.’
‘Cecilia.’ He inclined his head towards her, then said, ‘It’s a beautiful name.’
She felt the colour rushing over her body, up her neck, and to her hair, and she had no power to suppress it, but as she looked into the eyes fixed hard on her, Matthew’s warning came back to her: He’s after something; they do nothing for nothing, people like him, not for the likes of you, they don’t.
She turned slowly about and moved down the room to the door and looked at her son chasing the girls gleefully hither and thither on the flat rock terrace, and they were responding to him as if they had played with him all his life, and not just while he was in the cradle.
Clive now joined her, standing just behind and to the side of her. He glanced at the playing children for a moment, then brought his eyes onto her head to where the thick, brown plaits of hair were twisted to form a cap. And there came to him again the aroma from her body, and he knew that of all the things he had wanted in life, and of all the things he might want from life before he died, he would never want anything, or anyone, as much as he wanted this girl at this moment. When she turned her head quickly towards him and said, ‘He…he looks happy, he likes them,’ he said, ‘Of course he likes them. I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.’ Then stepping past her, he called to the boy, saying, ‘Richard! Richard! Come here.’ And when the child came running to him, he said, ‘Let the lady see what a big fellow you are, how heavy you are.’ Then turning to Cissie, he added, ‘Lift him and see what a great boy he’s grown into.’
Cissie, stooping over her child slowly put her arms about him and lifted him up; but when the child’s face was close to hers she couldn’t see it, and the breaking point came when the child’s hands clasped her cheeks and his small voice said in concern, ‘Why are you weeping?’ And, his own voice breaking, he turned to his father, saying, ‘Papa! Papa! The lady’s weeping.’
Clive took the child from Cissie’s arms and with his hand on her shoulder he turned her about and pressed her gently through the open door into the room again. And the children gathered round the door and watched the unusual scene, and so no-one noticed the two riders on the road at the bottom of the slope.
Isabelle had had an enjoyable day. She had brought down a number of birds and evoked the admiration of Arthur Bellingham. She had been pressed to stay to dinner at the Bellinghams’ but had refused, as had her father; the nights drew in early and neither of them relished even a five-mile ride in the dark. Her father had gone on ahead some time ago, taking the high road back to the Hall, and she had been content to meander by side roads with young Bellingham, whose admiration afforded her some amusement, if nothing else.
They crossed farmland, taking the horses uncaringly over fields of turnips, then dropped down on to the narrow road that ran alongside the wall of the estate.
