Greygallows (27 page)

'Good,' Jonathan said approvingly. 'This is what we must do—consider the dangers and not lose ourselves in righteous anger. As you say, the thing is possible; and it is possible that Clare would develop a kind of monomania on the subject. Don't you see, Lucy—if he does believe this, his treatment of you becomes explicable. It is even fairly mild. He does not mistreat you unless he is intoxicated, and any judge would consider him
justified in drinking to forget his fear of his wife's infidelity.'

'Judge,' I repeated, horrified. 'Are you thinking in such terms as that?'

'I am considering all possibilities. If he should threaten you physically—'

'He has struck me.'

'I know exactly what he has done to you,' Jonathan said, in a voice that made me shiver. 'And if I were able to exchange ten years of my life for the chance of returning those blows ... Well, but now I am talking like a hero in a silly novel. I must talk and think like a solicitor. And from that viewpoint I must tell you that he has done nothing which he is not entitled to do, under the circumstances which he would certainly plead.'

I was silent. There was nothing to say.

'I spoke with Tom about your accident on the moor,' Jonathan went on. 'He tells a rather strange story. A message called him away that day, to a person to whom he feels an obligation even greater than that which he feels for you. He will not tell me who sent for him; it is a girl, I suppose, and contrary to the prejudices of our aristocrats, delicacy is not limited to the upper classes. What is important is that the message was a counterfeit. It was not dispatched by the person whose name was signed to it.'

'That is strange.'

'More than strange.'

'Oh, I know,' I burst out. 'I know what you are thinking. I have had similar thoughts, when I was frightened. But they make no sense. No one has any cause to hate me; and my adventure on the moor could not have been designed to harm me. I
might have been killed, it is true. There are bogs and crevices; the horse might have thrown me onto my head. But no one planning evil would have left so much to chance.'

Jonathan nodded; I could see the same objections had occurred to him.

'I believe there is something I ought to tell you,' he said. 'I can't see how the knowledge could help you just now, but one never knows. It concerns your marriage settlement.'

'You told me once I ought to understand it. If I had insisted then—'

'It would have made no difference. Mr. Beam respects one woman's good understanding, but he regards my mother as some people regard a well-trained dog; she is the exception that proves the rule of the general inferiority of the species. Yet the subject is not difficult, when it is stripped of legal quibbles. It amounts to this: On your marriage, your property was divided into three parts. One was made over to your husband. He had complete control of both income and capital. This part...' He hesitated, and then went on. 'This part has been spent, to settle Clare's huge debts and to clear the title of the estate.

'The second portion was settled on you. This money too is gone. You signed it over to Clare several months ago. What he has done with it I do not know; but the amount spent on refurbishing the house has been enormous, and there may have been other debts.

'The third portion, by far the largest, was put in trust for—for your heirs. The income is to be enjoyed by your husband,
but he cannot dispose of the property from which that income
derives
without the consent of Mr. Beam. I see by your face that you anticipate what I am about to say. It was indeed this question that brought me here. The second paper you signed requested Mr. Beam to release this vast property to your husband's control. Mr. Beam has absolutely refused to sanction such a step. He holds strong views on family succession and the rights to a potential male heir.'

'I see.' I avoided his eyes. 'And if—if there should be no heir?'

'That is a possibility Mr. Beam will never admit,' Jonathan said dryly, unaware of my real meaning. 'The income is Clare's in any case; the agreement merely prevents him from dissipating the property until his son inherits, in the normal course of time.'

I did not reply; I was thinking. I could not help but connect this news with Clare's avoidance of me; and yet I could not see what bearing it could have. Unless ... The idea was preposterous and repulsive. But I had to ask. I found it hard to speak, my mouth was suddenly so dry.

'What if I should die without having children? What would happen to the money then?'

'Women cannot make wills,' Jonathan said bitterly. 'Not unless that right is specifically guaranteed them by the marriage settlement; and Mr. Beam is the last man to suggest such a radical procedure. The money would go to your husband, of course, and ... Lucy!'

He stopped short, facing me. We had climbed a slight hill and the wind pulled the veil from my head and tore my hair loose from its pins. It had grown since my illness and was now long enough
to touch my shoulders; it rose from my head in a cloud, like wings trying to lift me from the ground. A lock brushed Jonathan's face, and he caught his breath.

'I am mad with worry,' he said tightly. 'I am thinking thoughts I dare not utter. Lucy, is there anything I do not know—any incident, any word that might confirm my insane, groundless suspicion? For if there is—if there is a single solid fact to confirm this madness—then you must come with me, today, and escape from that house!'

'What would happen,' I said quietly, 'if I did come?'

'I would take you straight to London, to Mr. Beam, and we could tell him—'

'He would send me back. I don't believe the thing you fear, Jonathan. Do you think Mr. Beam would admit such an idea about a man like Clare?'

'Your aunt would not help you?'

'She would lock me in a room until Clare came to fetch me. No one will help us, Jonathan. And if we did defy them, if I hid, like a criminal escaping the law—you would suffer. Mr. Beam would dismiss you, he would have no choice. You would never find employment in your profession. It would ruin you. Even if Clare gave me up—divorced me—you would still be ruined. He is a vindictive man; he would see that you paid for interfering with his property.'

'I would risk that, Lucy, if you would let me.'

'I know you would.' The sharp wind brought the tears to my eyes and I brushed them away, angrily; I would not have Jonathan suppose I was using this last, despicable woman's weapon. 'I will not let you. There is no such proof as you ask for. It may
be that your first idea is right, that Clare is jealous. If so, my duty, and my sole recourse, is to convince him he is wrong, and so win his regard.'

'There is something you haven't told me,' Jonathan said. 'I can tell by your face.'

'If so, it is not a matter that confirms your fears,' I said, flushing. 'On the contrary. His character combines delicacy and pride to a high degree. If he thought I truly disliked him, it would explain why he does not—why he has not—'

'Lucy, what are you saying? Do you mean Clare has not ... that you are husband and wife in name only?'

Jonathan took me by the shoulders. I put my hands up to hold him off. If I let him hold me again, if I let him kiss me, there would be no more talk. I would not have the strength to resist the course I wanted so desperately to take—the course that would ruin him.

'I should not have told you. I have no right to discuss such things.'

'He must be mad,' Jonathan said.

Perhaps I ought to have been offended; instead his candor filled me with amused delight. He saw my look; his eyes narrowed with rueful laughter and for a moment we stood looking at one another in that perfect understanding that is so rare even between lovers.

'But it is inexplicable,' Jonathan insisted. 'There is something in what you say of Clare's character. But, Lucy, I am a man; and I find this incredible. Unless he has ... that is...'

'I know what you mean,' I said, as he paused in embarrassment. 'Poor Jona
than, I fear I am destroying all your pretty ideas about
the
innocence of females. With such a mother as yours you cannot think we are utter fools; even the girls in school knew about mistresses and illegitimate children.'

'What a world it is,' Jonathan muttered; my effort to speak cheerfully had not amused him. 'We preach chastity aloud, and go out by night to destroy it wherever we can. And think, in our folly, that the two worlds can be kept apart ... You are right, Lucy. I should be ashamed of treating you like a child. I will leave off doing so. Does Clare go frequently to York and Edinburgh? He would hardly lower himself to an alliance with one of the village girls.'

'Not
that
often, no.'

'I confess, then, to an increased interest in the beautiful Miss Fleetwood.'

I shook my head.

'If you had met her, you would not entertain such an idea for a moment. Oh, I thought of her, all the more so because they were childhood sweethearts. But it is impossible; she would never consent to an illicit attachment.'

Jonathan looked skeptical, and I laughed.

'You men! Very well; if you feel like a longish walk, we will stroll toward the vicarage. Her brother mentioned that she sometimes walks out, in the morning, near the house. Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to meet her, and then I will see your doubts destroyed.'

He assented, and we walked on. The wind was chilly, but I scarcely felt it; I was filled with the oddest mixture of happiness and bitter pain. This might well be the last time we could be alone together; certainly our conversation had convinced
me of the impossibility of any permanent relationship between us. The censure of the world could strike down even the innocent; I well knew the punishment it would inflict on any man who defied its rules. Jonathan's promising career, his hopes of service to the poor, would end if I went to him. His mother depended on him for support, and I would be able to bring nothing to him, for Clare would never let me go if it meant losing a penny of the fortune that was in his control. We might have children ... The thought made me catch my breath. Yet through the bitter knowledge, the simple fact of being with him was joy enough.

The grove of trees surrounding the vicarage came into view and Jonathan sighed deeply, as if he, like myself, were being forced to withdraw from a brief interval of peace.

'This fellow Fleetwood,' he said abruptly. 'Can he be trusted?'

'Why—what makes you ask that? He is a clergyman; he came to my assistance, as you saw...'

'I can believe in Clare's being jealous, because I am too,' Jonathan confessed, with a smile. 'I hated the man because he was doing for you what I dared not do.'

'Any word from you would have made Clare worse.'

'I know that; it did not relieve my jealousy! I should be glad—and in my heart I am glad—that you have such a defender. Clare seems to heed his opinions.'

'They have been friends for many years. 'I went on to relate what Mrs. Andrews had told me of the
relation between the three young people. Jonathan listened attentively.

'It is a sad story,' he agreed. 'And only too typical of the social ills of our time. To think that worldly pride could interfere with true attachment! From what you say, the lady is as admirable in character as she is beautiful. I am quite curious to see her.'

'You are in luck, then,' I said, gesturing.

She was walking slowly, so preoccupied with thoughts of her own that she did not see us until we were almost upon her. That was as well, I thought, seeing the startled movement she made when she did catch sight of us. If she had been able to retreat without rudeness, I felt sure she would have done so.

She wore a heavy fur-trimmed cloak with fur around the hood; the soft dark stuff framed her face and softened its outlines. It was thinner and paler than it had been when I last saw her. Her great eyes seemed to fill most of her face.

I heard the catch of Jonathan's breath, and then it was my turn to feel jealousy. She was still beautiful; illness and suffering could not rob that face of its charm.

I introduced them and stood by as Jonathan's captivation was completed by the lady's exquisite manners. He stuttered like a schoolboy, the silly thing. I then asked about the plan of going abroad and hoped that her health had improved to such an extent that we would not be deprived of her society that winter.

'We have not quite settled our plans,' she said. 'I am torn; I love this bleak barren country and my snug little house.'

'Italy would suit you,' Jonathan said, still staring. 'The art, the picture galleries, the ruins—'

'Yes,' she interrupted eagerly, a faint flush coming into her face. 'I yearn to see it. Art is my passion, and reproductions convey only a poor impression of the reality.'

They went on to speak of paintings, and then of books, while I stood by sulking. She had always made me feel ignorant, but I had never felt the contrast so keenly, knowing Jonathan's admiration of intelligence. Yet learning had not affected the delicacy of her feelings; when Jonathan mentioned several novels written by women, she frowned slightly.

'Miss Austen's books are charming, it is true. But that unwomanly creature, who has even taken a man's name—she is no credit to our sex, Mr. Scott. It surprises me that such books are published. They are immoral.'

'But very well written.'

'What does that matter, when the content is so pernicious? Her demands for greater freedom for women are ridiculous. And the unregulated emotion, the almost masculine passion—'

She broke off, flushing.

'Women feel no such emotions?' Jonathan asked.

'They feel them,' she said quietly. 'They feel them all the more for suppressing them, as they are required to do by the rules of God and society, and their own natures.'

'We are keeping you standing in the cold,' I said sharply. 'Mr. Scott—'