The Shadow In The House Page 3

  “Mary here at last!” said Mrs de Liane, linking her arm through her visitor’s possessively. “You don’t mind me calling you Mary, do you, dear? It’s so much more English than Marie-Elizabeth. Besides, my own daughter——” She stopped abruptly and shook her head. “That’s an old sorrow, my pet, an old sorrow.”

  She looked away, and the girl heard the ghost of a sigh at her elbow. Long afterwards she remembered that a slight emphasis on the word “old” and the sigh were the first indications she had that all was not well in the great house.

  The next intimation followed almost immediately when a woman in a grey cotton dress and a white apron appeared for a moment at the top of the stairs. Old Mrs de Liane looked up at her anxiously, and she smiled back, pityingly, Mary thought, and entered one of the doors just visible over the carved balustrade.

  Mrs de Liane opened her mouth as though to make a confidence, but thought better of it.

  “Tea,” she said decisively. “Tea next and see your room afterwards. I do so want to hear all about my little girl. You’re like your mother, dear.”

  “Am I?” said Mary guiltily.

  “Exactly. The same hair and so pretty, so very pretty. Any sweethearts yet?”

  “No,” said Mary, wondering what Miss Mason’s reactions would have been to this pathetically eager welcome.

  “None? Well, what are the young men thinking of? But I expect you’re very choosy, is that it?”

  In spite of the conventional words Mary had a distinct impression that the old lady was pleased. Her soft hands gripped her arm affectionately.

  “Now come and see your uncle,” she said, adding in a confidential whisper, “He’s a little worried today, I’m afraid, poor darling. But don’t mind. He’s as glad to see you as I am.”

  She piloted the girl into a big candlelit drawing room where tea was set before the fire. Seated in the depths of a winged needlework chair Mary made out the figure of an old man. He was leaning back but not asleep, and there was something odd in his attitude when they entered—a tenseness, almost a listening pose. But he sat up and blinked at them as his wife brought the girl forward.

  Mary saw a white, harassed face, pale hazel eyes and a petulant mouth. Then an unsteady hand was thrust into her own and a faraway voice, as nervy and indeterminate as its owner, muttered:

  “Pleased to see you, my dear.”

  And Marie-Elizabeth’s uncle Ted got up and walked out of the room.

  Mrs de Liane’s grip on the girl’s arm tightened, her old mouth twisting as the candlelight fell on her face and her bright blue eyes filling with tears.

  “He’s worried, poor man,” she said, “terribly worried. Never mind him, dear. Sit down to your tea. Do you know, I’ve been so anxious about you,” she went on, settling down behind the teacups. “I thought living out in one of those—those primitive little towns you might have grown up coarse, self-willed and—well, difficult. I thought you might find it so dull and narrow down here, do you know.”

  She bent her bright eyes on the girl, and Mary spoke involuntarily out of the depths of her heart.

  “I think it’s like home,” she said.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Dreadful Thing

  AT TEN O’CLOCK that evening Mary sat alone in the drawing room fighting with her conscience. Ever since she had come to Baron’s Tye she had reproached herself. It did not seem right that she should be so happy. Aunt Eva was so kind, so pathetically eager to love her, and the whole atmosphere of the place was what she had longed for in her years of exile in the city.

  The deception itself had been childishly easy. Uncle Ted had not reappeared, even for dinner, and certainly at her first meeting he had not seemed particularly inquisitive. As for Mrs de Liane, she was so pleased at finding her niece the sort of girl she liked it had clearly never entered her head to doubt her authenticity. Besides, it was evident that she had something else on her mind.

  Dinner had been an elegant meal exquisitely served, and afterwards they had sat over coffee in the candlelit drawing room and listened to the wind in the trees and the peace of the quiet old house: not very exciting for anyone—deadly from Marie-Elizabeth Mason’s point of view—but water in the desert to the little country girl who had been cooped up for two years in the urban discomfort of Merton House.

  During the first part of the evening the impression that something was very wrong had not presented itself with any certainty to Mary’s mind. A distraction in Mrs de Liane’s manner, her whispered conversation with the grey-clad woman in the hall after dinner, and Uncle Ted’s nonappearance had been the only real evidences of disturbance until half an hour ago, when a startled maid had entered to say that “Mrs Jane” would like to see Mrs de Liane for a moment, and then the old lady had sprung up with a muttered exclamation and had hurried out of the room.

  Since then there had been a great deal of bustle to and fro. A car had driven up to the front door, and there had been urgent voices in the hall.

  It was the first time Mary had been alone in Baron’s Tye. Outside the wind roared in the trees, and through a narrow strip of open window the warm, moist air poured into the room, bearing the sweet smell of wet leaves. The girl took deep breaths of it greedily, never guessing how that haunting savour was to linger in her nostrils in the days to come.

  Around and above her the quiet house crouched like some great sleeping animal, lovely in line and texture but in temperament utterly unknown.

  Since the car had gone there had been other sounds, quick pattering footsteps over polished wood and the murmur of lowered voices. Idly she wondered how many servants there were, and the vague thought that there sounded to be a great many to look after one old lady and her husband passed through her mind.

  But the peace and beauty of the room soothed her and drugged those inner senses which warn and prepare the mind for revelation.

  Suddenly, however, her contentment was shattered as effectively as if the ground had opened at her feet. Whether it was the startled cry of a night bird in the trees or something even less tangible she never knew, but she found herself sitting up stiff and breathless, a cold fear utterly unlike anything she had ever known gripping at her heart.

  Something was wrong.

  She knew it with all the vividness of certainty. Something was wrong in this quiet, lovely house, something inexpressibly horrible, something cruel.

  She sprang to her feet and stood taut and breathless on the white rug, her eyes trained upon the door. Even as she looked it opened quietly and the old lady came in.

  Instantly Mary’s own fears were forgotten. Her vision of the shadow, a glimpse which might even then have saved them all, had gone, and she was herself again, her round grey eyes alight with sympathy.

  “Why, Mrs d—I mean Aunt Eva, what’s the matter? My dear, don’t upset yourself so terribly. Sit down.”

  She lowered the sobbing figure gently into a chair and stood before her helplessly until the old woman put out a trembling hand and drew the girl towards her. Her eyes were closed, and Mary was fascinated with pity at the sight of the round tears squeezing out between the closed lids and rolling down the finely wrinkled face.

  “It’s so terribly cruel. So young—so very young!”

  The words broke from the old lips involuntarily.

  Mary dropped on her knees beside the chair.

  “Tell me,” she said softly.

  Mrs de Liane pulled herself together with an effort and wiped her eyes.

  “I didn’t want you to know, at once—your first evening. I thought I could be brave just for the first little while. Ted knew it was beyond him, poor man, but I tried so hard. Now the doctor’s been and—and …”

  Her voice trailed away, and she pressed her little handkerchief into her eyes.

  “Who is it?” Mary hardly recognized her own voice.

  “Richard.” The whispered name uttered so lovingly hardly reached the girl. “My dear dear boy. My Richard.”

  Mary was sil
ent. Marie-Elizabeth had not mentioned a Richard, and she felt a sudden disgust at herself. Here was she, an impostor, intruding into a terrible grief.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the old lady’s next words silenced her.

  “Thank God you’re here, my dear. Without you I should be alone. You haven’t heard of Richard, have you? He’s my son, my only boy. I didn’t mention him in my letters because—because, oh, I had a foolish idea that you two dear children might fall in love and marry. He’s only a cousin by marriage, you see, and I didn’t mention him because you know how girls are. They like to find their man themselves. I thought if he came as a surprise to you you might——Oh, dear God, how foolish we are when we plan things!”

  A fresh paroxysm of weeping shook her, and Mary laid her hand timidly on the tiny heaving shoulders.

  “Is he very ill?” she murmured.

  Mrs de Liane wiped her eyes and looked down at her wrinkled hands.

  “Richard is going to die,” she said softly. “Nothing in the world can save him. His spine is broken. Tomorrow, or it may be the day afterwards, he will be dead. That car which came to the door just now brought the last specialist we could call, the highest court of appeal. He says … no—no hope.”

  Her voice trailed away, and there was complete silence in the big room, the old woman staring down at her clasped hands, the girl kneeling by her chair.

  “Three days ago—” the old voice was scarcely above a whisper—“he went out very early in the morning, cubbing. He never reached the meet. They found him down in the valley, lying in the bracken, his poor horse standing over him.

  “He was so young,” she went on, her eyes resting on Mary’s face. “So young and so full of life.”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet and for the first time since they had met looked searchingly at the girl.

  “Mary, my dear,” she said, “will you come and see him?”

  “Why—why of course, Aunt Eva, if you want me to.” The girl stammered over the words, and a faintly pained expression passed over the elder woman’s face.

  “He’s not … horrible,” she said. “Come with me.”

  As Mary entered the brightly lit bedroom behind the old woman her heart was pounding unhappily. She knew now that come what might she could never look this tragic, lovable old lady in the eyes and confess that she had lied.

  The woman in grey was sitting by the fireplace as they entered, but she rose at once and slipped out of the room, her white apron crackling as she moved.

  Mary dragged her eyes fearfully towards the old-fashioned canopy bed which faced the two tall windows. Over Mrs de Liane’s shoulder she caught a glimpse of a narrow mound in the white coverlet, lying pitifully stiff and still, and then an unexpected voice said softly:

  “Hello, Angel.”

  “Richard, my dear boy.” Mrs de Liane was holding herself in check with difficulty, for her voice quivered pathetically and she pulled the bed curtain on one side with a hand that trembled. “Here’s Mary,” she said.

  The girl moved forward quietly and looked down into the bed. Lying very stiffly among the crisp white pillows was a man in his late twenties. She noticed his lean brown neck against the whiteness of the linen and the clean line of his jaw. He was smiling at her, and she was aware of a dark, vivid face with his mother’s dancing blue eyes and crisp black curls shorn so tightly that his head seemed covered with karakul. A wave of dismay passed over her. This man was alive, so much more alive than millions of his fellows. It seemed a monstrous, unbearable thing that he should be going to die.

  His smile broadened, and a shadow at the back of his dancing eyes alone betrayed his helplessness.

  “How do you do, Mary,” he said. “Sorry I can’t get up.”

  The old lady turned away with a little inarticulate sound, and a frown passed over the brown face on the pillows.

  “Sorry, Angel,” he said unsteadily. “Look here, you go and warm your toes before your bedroom fire for half an hour and leave us. I want to talk to Mary.”

  “But Richard darling, you’ll tire yourself.” The old woman was all compassion.

  “No I won’t,” he said, and added half under his breath, “Anyway, what does it matter? I’m going to have a long rest.”

  Mrs de Liane touched Mary’s arm.

  “Humour him,” she whispered, and moved towards the door.

  Mary caught a fleeting glimpse of her little figure, bowed with grief, as she vanished into the gloom of the hall.

  “Sit down. I can’t get you a chair, but you can perch on the end of the bed if you like. You can’t hurt me. My poor old Red Jenny has done all the needful in that direction.”

  There was a laugh and underlying bitterness in the voice from the pillows, and Mary accepted the invitation simply, seating herself at the far end of the bed, where the light shone on her face.

  “How’s that?” she said.

  “Fine.” There was a tinge of admiration in his voice. “This is too bad, you know. Has Mother told you? I’m for it any time now. My legs have gone already, and my arms are pretty nearly paralyzed. Soon I’ll get sleepy and then——”

  “Don’t,” said Mary, “oh, don’t!”

  He blinked at her and smiled impishly.

  “You can’t be nearly as sorry for me as I am for myself, my dear,” he said in a tone that was meant to be light and sounded inexpressibly weary. “Did you know Mother meant to marry us off? Rotten for the old dear, isn’t it? Think you could have liked me if I—I hadn’t died?”

  The wistfulness in the terrible words was unbearable. Mary slipped off the bed and went up to him.

  “Please don’t,” she said gently. “Please, please.”

  He smiled at her, and she noticed that his mouth turned down at the corners ridiculously to make little folds in his cheeks.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m so utterly miserable, and there’s so little time. There’s something I’ve got to tell you at once, because no one else will, and I may not be able to if I leave it. My mother has plenty of money, but she doesn’t own this house. She’s lived here all her life, and she loves it more than anything else in the world except me. It belonged to her father, and he left it to me for my own and my wife’s lifetime. When I die it goes to his stepson and his wife.”

  He paused, evidently weary, but his blue eyes rested searchingly on her face.

  “I understand.”

  “I wish you did,” he said bitterly. “But you’ll have to take it from me that these people, Percy and Ethel Denver, are horrible. They’re appallingly rich, and they’re the sort of people who pull down and rebuild. They’ve had their eyes on this place ever since I can remember. I’ve turned down fantastic offers from them. And now they’re going to get it and turn Mother out.

  “Don’t you see,” he went on passionately; “as soon as I’m dead it goes to them, and Mother will have to leave her old home or stay in the village and see it mutilated. Help me, Mary. You’re the only person I can ask because you’re our family, if not our kin, and I can trust you to let her stay here always until she dies.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  The girl’s voice was very quiet because she knew his answer, and it frightened her.

  “Marry me. Marry me at once before I die. Then the house will be yours for your lifetime. You’re young, you’re strong, you’re kind—you are kind, aren’t you, Mary? Have pity on me. I can’t do anything. I’ve got to die and know I can’t save her home for her. Haven’t you ever loved a house?”

  “Yes.” The passion in her voice silenced him for a minute. She was thinking, her thoughts chasing each other in nightmare ride.

  He went on, his young voice pleading:

  “You’ll be a widow, but does that matter so much nowadays? That’s all it’ll cost you. You’ll be young Mrs de Liane instead of Miss Mason. And when Mother dies you can sell the house, even to the Denvers if you like. I shan’t know or care then. Will you? Will you, Mary? Time’s so sho
rt.”

  The girl sat very still. She had no doubt of what Marie-Elizabeth would do in similar circumstances.

  “We could trust you,” the voice went on from the bed. “You wouldn’t turn her out even if it meant refusing the finest offer in the world.”

  Mary started. It was true. Although he could not know it he could trust her implicitly, even more perhaps than the real Marie-Elizabeth, who might just possibly not understand the tentacles which an old house wraps round one’s heart. There would be no difficulty about the name either. A marriage is one of the few contracts which hold good whatever pseudonym is used.

  She looked at the man lying there, so young and so unutterably piteous.

  “Could it be done—in time?”

  “I think so. I’ve been talking to the doctor. There’s a private chapel here, and it’s only a question of getting me down there and paying the necessary fees for the special licence. Will you, Mary?”

  His voice was growing fainter. He smiled at her wanly, and again she noticed with a curious tug at her heart the two little folds in his brown cheeks. His eyes danced.

  “Oh Mary, be my widow,” he whispered.

  The girl’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  “Yes,” she said resolutely. “I will.”

  Richard de Liane lay still and stared at her.

  “You’re sweet,” he observed unexpectedly. “What a damned shame!”

  “A shame?”

  The man closed his eyes.

  “A damned shame I’m going to die. Call Mother, will you? We must get this fixed up quickly.”

  Scalding tears on her cheeks and a sensation in her heart she never before had known, Mary crept silently from the room.

  CHAPTER V

  “… And to Hold …”

  “… UNTIL DEATH you do part.”

  The young clergyman brought up from the village to perform the ceremony in the tiny sixteenth-century chapel at Baron’s Tye faltered over the words. It was a heart-rending moment: the young man lying on the hospital stretcher, his face powdered to hide the greyness of his cheeks, and the girl beside him, pale and tremulous, fully conscious of the grim drama of the early morning scene.