The Ballad and the Source (24 page)

Mrs. Jardine sighed, as if the memory of that long journey still fatigued her.

“And you found them?”

“It was a big farm house on the outskirts of a village, not far from a beautiful old town called Prague. That is the capital of Bohemia. I wonder, can you picture it? A village of coloured houses, white, pale blue, pale pink plaster, with wooden balconies filled with flowers—mostly red geraniums. So clean, so bright, so extraordinarily pretty. At the top of the village, on a little hill, a white church with a round green dome, the shape of an onion. And beyond, green hills and the pine forests. I could smell the forests as I walked down the wide village street. It was like walking into a fairy story. Flocks of geese wheeling off this way and that as I came along. So I came to the farm where Tilly's husband was born. Jinric Svoboda. A very handsome man. They were an exceptionally handsome family—tall, splendid cheek bones, so much dignity. Jinric's parents were dead now. His two brothers and his sister lived on there, with their families. Imagine pert Cockney Tilly among them all!—like a London sparrow bouncing and pecking round a team of noble cart horses. But they adored her—they thought her fascinating. She was giving them English lessons,—shouting­­­­ at them, of course, as we English always do to make it easier for poor weak-witted foreigners to understand us. They repeated words after her so painstakingly in their soft slow voices, and their faults of pronunciation caused her to cackle with laughter; and the more she laughed at them, the more they delighted in her amusement. I saw them all through the window. They were sitting round a big wooden table eating their evening meal. It was like a picture of peasants by a Flemish master—the bright, spotless wooden kitchen, the shining pots and pans, the circle of faces half lit, half shadowed. There were some children in pinafores. It was only a glimpse. I saw no one precisely. Naturally I could not press my nose to the window and stare in. I moved noiselessly and put myself out of sight in the doorway, and heard this lesson going on. The laughter. Then I heard a different kind of voice speak a word or two in English: a well-bred voice, high-pitched, not unmusical from a distance.
‘
My—mother—has—blue—eyes,' it said slowly, clearly.”

“Ianthe!
”

“Ianthe. She was repeating it for a child, and a child's voice lisped it after her. She went on patiently repeating simple words—my kitten, my spoon, my plate, my baby brother; and I heard Tilly say: ‘Mudder, brudder—'ark at 'im, bless 'is 'eart! Oh, 'e'll get 'is tongue round it before any of you.' It was a strange experience for me. I would have liked to stay there for ever listening. After a hundred years of anguish, to have arrived at last beside this well, and find her there, drinking peace with a peasant child from a white cup.
…”

Her voice faded out like sad singing. It made me want to cry.

“And to hear her say that first of all, about blue eyes, as if she was talking about you,” I said shakily.

“Yes. Did that strike you? It struck me too.”

“Did you go in?”

“No, no. I could not break in. It came to me suddenly as I stood there that if she were to see me unexpectedly she would—” Mrs. Jardine stopped dead; then said calmly: “I
heard
the scream that she would give. I slipped away, skirting the wall and, took a field path back to the inn. I asked for a room, and then I had a delicious supper.”

“What did you have?”

“A kind of junket called yoghourt, with brown sugar; we should be a healthier nation if it formed part of our diet; and brown bread and butter and coffee;
good
coffee. Then I wrote a note and asked the landlord's little daughter to take it to Tilly for me.”

“In English, did you ask?”

“Of course not. How could she have understood me? In German, her mother tongue, which I speak perfectly.”

“Tell me what you said.”

She told me; and added rather severely:

“I hope your mother will see to it that you are taught to speak it properly.”

“Oh yes. She says we're to have a German governess next summer holidays,” I said, depressed. “So then what happened?”

“I went and sat at a little table under an apple tree in the inn garden, and waited.”

“And Tilly came?”

“She came.”

“Was she pleased to see you?”

Mrs. Jardine smiled.

“No. She was not. There she sat, a most singular sight, in her bonnet, and—what was it called, that cape thing she always wore.
…”

“Her dolman?”

“Ah yes, her dolman. Does she
still
wear it?”

“Oh yes. Always.”

“She does!” Mrs. Jardine chuckled, sighed. “Oh, Tilly is a unique experiment of Nature's. We shall not look upon her like again. There she sat, clasping her reticule—I remembered
that
from twenty years ago—looking fixedly into the apple boughs. She would not look at me. Excessively dignified she was. Seeing as I'd put it how I had in my note, she said, she'd felt it no more than her duty to come along. What had I to say to her?”

“How had you put it?”

“In the name of one whom we both loved,
I said,
who on her death bed promised you to me in case of my need, and enjoined on you this promise, come immediately.”

I nodded, deeply stirred.

“
‘
What I want, Tilly,' I said,
‘
is the information you owe me.' She didn't know what I was driving at—information, was her answer. Since it seemed I'd ferreted it out somehow that Ianthe was with her, all she could say was Ianthe had turned up at her front door one day, as was very natural, her being in England again and considering the old days. It wasn't her business, she said, whether
I
knew Ianthe's whereabouts or not. She wasn't to suppose I troubled myself much, not from the way Ianthe spoke. Not that Ianthe ever mentioned me at all. What was the harm, she'd like to know, in her paying a visit to her own husband's people that were always asking her, and Ianthe coming along too, seeing she was looking peaky, like she needed a holiday, and there was nobody seemed to trouble themselves about her, and remembering how fond Madam had used to be of her as a little thing, and sorry for her too to be deserted like. Oh, a rigmarole! and her eyes popping at the apples; and rather impertinent. Yes, I must say, her whole attitude was one of impertinence.
‘
Enough of this, Tilly,' I said.
‘
Answer me plainly.
Is the baby living?
'
She looked at me then.” Mrs. Jardine drew in a long loud breath. “Her face mottled like old blotting paper. Whatever in the world was I insinuating? Baby?
…
Then I will frighten you, I thought. So I did.”

The rap in Mrs. Jardine's voice, sudden, icy, made me jump.

“I threatened her with the law. In no uncertain terms I threatened her. It did not take me long to break her down. She broke into hysterical weeping. I sat by her and held her hand. Such a warm sweet starry night was coming down. There were other people sitting out in front of the inn, drinking their evening beer. Somebody had a violin. He played it very sweetly—old German airs. After a while they called good-night to one another and began to go home. We were alone. Tilly began to grow calm.
‘
Oh, Miss Sibyl!'
…
she sighed out at last. So then I knew we could speak to one another.”

“Was she more polite then?”

“Much more.
‘
The baby died?
'
I said. I knew it, of course, by that time. Until I saw her, I had been nursing a mad hope that all was well. It was hearing her voice in that kitchen, so calm and contented. Listening, I had thought: perhaps she has just fed him and put him in a wooden cradle. A foolish piece of self-deception. She was contented because she had become a child again among children, without responsibilities, protected.”

“The baby was dead?”

“The baby was dead. A boy. Born dead. So she assured me.”

The controlled intensity not only of these sentences but also of the pauses between them appalled me far more than her former outburst of tears.

“
Born
dead?”

“A month ago. Never brought to birth.” Mrs. Jardine's eyes, her whole face, dilated for a moment as if about to explode. “The whole story came out bit by bit. How Ianthe had arrived one day, without a word of warning, having travelled alone from Italy. Had asked Tilly to take her in, hide her and help her. She was like a trapped thing, said Tilly. Half out of her wits. Saying she'd do away with herself, acting so queer sometimes—suspicious-like­­­­—making­­­ out there was somebody after her.
Gasping fits
and that. Other times she didn't seem to take in nothing.
‘
She'd
chatter like a child.'” Mrs. Jardine drummed sharply with her fingers. “Hysteria, I dare say. … But it is true that an actual seed of mental instability will germinate at these times. In any case her behaviour, her actions appear to have been those of one—at least temporarily unhinged. All Tilly could elicit from her—or rather, all Tilly told
me
—was that Ianthe had been happy for a time in her new life
—”

“Her life after she ran away with Paul?
”

“Yes. Had
intended
—that seems to have been the way she put it—had
intended
to be happy. Then, after a time, had been overtaken by a mounting horror of him—had turned against him with such an uncontrollably violent repugnance. … She went on how she hated men,' said Tilly.
‘
Hated and loathed them.' So one fine day,” said Mrs. Jardine briskly, “it seems that she was seized by an over-mastering desire to—attack him.”

“What? Hit him?”

She shrugged her shoulders, then nodded.

“Badly? To hurt him?”

“I do not know what happened. I heard that when he died—he died far away, alone, in a hotel bedroom—he had on his forehead, above one temple, a terrible scar. He had no scar upon his beautiful brow in the days when we were together. I understood then.
…”
Her voice trembled. “I understood why he had never let me look upon his face again.” Then rapidly: “Yes, we will assume she wanted to hurt him badly. Or let us not put it in so crude a way. Let us say an
impulse
seized her; that there came the bursting point of a complexity of hideous fears and pressures. I can well imagine … I can remember
…”
She drew another labouring breath. “Aghast she fled from him, leaving in her panic and confusion no trace behind her. If Tilly is to be believed, she did not appear to realise her condition. So possibly—I think certainly—she had not informed him.” Another hard breath. “When she
did
realise, that a child was on the way, I mean, it seems that she became frantic.”

“She didn't want to have a baby?”

“She did not want to. No doubt Tilly did her best for her,” said Mrs.
Jardine,
dry as gunpowder—I could not think why. “I did not inquire. Time went on. Tilly devised a desperate plan. She would take her abroad to this obscure far-away village where nobody would recognise or follow her. There the child would be born. Beyond that she had not looked. If the worst came to the worst, she thought, the child could remain there. They would bring him up as their own. I would not have objected to that. It would have been a good life, a happy wholesome life; perhaps the wisest solution in the circumstances. If she had seen where her first duty lay—to inform me—I would have given that scheme my blessing and furthered it with all my powers. But Ianthe, she said, had pledged her with threats and prayers to secrecy regarding me; and she considered that enough. Enough indeed! I should say so. No need, when you place the long-sought weapon in a person's hands, to beg her to strike home with it. … Yet it was a difficult situation for Tilly; I am the first to admit it. … So this journey was undertaken. She had enough money—your grandmother had left her a little annuity, as perhaps you know—Ianthe had what I had sent her. It is some comfort at least to remember that. So off they went. Ianthe grew calmer there at once, she said. They made her welcome, cherished her, and asked no questions. Ah, they must have been good people. I think of them daily with love and blessings.
‘
She never seemed to worry no more about nothing,' said Tilly.
‘
She left the worrying to me.' So she had this time of healthy, peaceful, vegetable existence—all as it should be.
‘
But,' said Tilly,
‘
not even near the end she didn't seem to take it in what was coming. She wouldn't talk about it nor make its little clothes nor nothing. She just took little walks and played with the other children and ate hearty.' This sister-in-law was the village midwife: that is, the woman who looks after poor mothers when their babies are born. Then it came to Ianthe's time. Everything went very badly, as badly as possible. Ianthe nearly died.”

“Like you guessed?”

“Yes. They saved her life. They could not save the child. A fine big boy.
… ‘
If I had been there,' I said to Tilly,
‘
he would have been saved.'
‘
It was better so,' said Tilly.
‘
She didn't want him.'
‘
I
wanted him,' I said.
‘
He was mine.' I said no more. What use? It was all too late. That beautiful child had been denied his life. Paul's child. He would have been glorious.”

“What a shame.” I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand.

“All this was a month ago. Ianthe, with the vitality of youth, had made a rapid recovery. She had never spoken of her baby, never shed a tear for him, or asked for any token—not even one word of description—by which to remember him.
‘
It seemed unnatural,' said Tilly.”