Damask removed the tray, soothed Miss Parsons into a passive drowsiness and went to get ready to play her part in the great ‘experiment’.
The fog, which from within the lighted room seemed so thick and baffling, was far less impenetrable when one was out of doors. That at least was something to be thankful for, Linda thought, as she stole, furtively as a thief, out by the side door and into the stableyard. She knew roughly where Simon was, for he had howled dolorously for an hour after being dragged away; but he was silent now, and with hands which no effort of will could make steady she opened door after door before she found the right one and braced herself to meet the dog’s overwhelming welcome. After that she wasted no time; she had made her plan. Between the Manor and Berry Lane, if you went directly, there was only a stretch of park and the parson’s glebe. Hadstock said that the walk took him barely ten minutes. With the dog close to her side, she left the yard and hurried into the park, where the long, tussocky grass, grey with the fog dampness, slowed her progress, until, after a few minutes, she struck the narrow track worn by Hadstock’s feet. That was something else to be thankful for—and it was more; it was a sign. Out of all the horror and tumult and confusion and desperation, here she was, on the little path which led direct to
Hadstock. His feet in their daily journeys had made the way smooth for hers.
The track led, ruler straight, to the sunken ditch which divided the park from the glebe. Water, leaden-coloured against the greyed grass, ran in the ditch’s bottom, but two great stones broke the surface, bridging it in two lengthy strides. She misjudged the first step and slipped, soaking one shoe and stocking and one side of her skirt, but she regained a precarious balance and reached the glebe, and Simon crossed in one lithe leap.
The uncurtained kitchen window of Hadstock’s cottage’ showed as a yellow smudge on the prevailing grey before she reached the gate in the fence which separated his back yard from the glebe, and that again was a symbol of hope. For her most immediately pressing problem Hadstock would have a solution; furthermore in asking his help she would be bound to explain a little and that would be a relief. As she opened the gate and walked into the small yard she reminded herself that she must be careful, controlled; the relationship between them was only tenable on those conditions.
She had not spoken to Hadstock since Richard’s return to Clevely just before the Harvest Horkey, and she had seen him, in that time, only once, at the horkey itself. Hadstock had remained aloof then, and left early. After the supper was ended and the trestle tables cleared to leave room for the dancing, she had, as on the previous year, started the jig on the arm of Ricky Wellman, the oldest man present, while Richard hauled Mrs Hart, all twelve stone of her, bulky in four petticoats, twice around the barn. A little later, when Richard said, in his critical fashion, ‘You have not yet honoured the bailiff, my dear.’ she had said, ‘No, but I will,’ and turned away quickly lest something in her expression should betray her. The idea of dancing with Hadstock as part of the routine, a sharing out of favours, was repulsive to her; it would have been a secret betrayal of their unacknowledged intimacy. And it would have been something more—a test of fortitude. But Hadstock had gone, his early retirement eloquent
and significant.
The lighted window was close now. As she moved towards it she saw the light obscured by Hadstock’s bulk; he carried a kettle in his hand.
She knocked at the door and it opened. There was Hadstock in his shirt-sleeves. He stared at her with unconcealed astonishment.
‘You I’ he said. Her face in the shadow of the cloak’s hood had a luminous pallor; her eyes, with pupils dilated by the walk through the darkness were black and huge; and she was trembling so much that the little globules of moisture along the edge of the hood and the whisps of hair which showed under it shimmered and gleamed.
‘Is anything wrong? Come in,’ he said. As she entered the kitchen he slammed the door to, as though to exclude some possible pursuer.
‘Nothing very much. At least … Oh, Hadstock, I’m sorry to arrive like this and disturb you. But you did say that if ever … Do you think you could keep Simon for
me?’
‘Of course I can. Here, sit down.’ He pulled forward a high-backed chair, black with age, uncushioned. ‘Let me have your cloak, it’s quite damp.’
‘I musn’t stay. It doesn’t matter. But he took the cloak, shook it, and hung it on the peg on the door where his own jacket hung. The big white dog, close by Linda’s chair, watched him. Another disappointing walk! Simon hated Linda to visit cottages; he liked to walk all the time and have her full attention. But he knew how to behave; he stood by her side until the cottage’s occupant had admired him, and the children, if any, had mauled him a little, then he lay down with his nose on his paws. This cottage belonged to someone familiar and there were, apparently, no children, so he could lie down now. He did so with a patient sigh, and stayed immobile, only cocking an eye when he heard his own name.
Hadstock turned back and looked at Linda. Some sort of shock, he thought; and nasty, despite the way in which she had said, ‘Nothing very much.’ He moved to the
hearth, and taking up a handful of the dried twigs which lay there broke them small and fed them to the flames which lapped about the kettle.
‘I was just about to make some tea.’ he said untruthfully. He had fallen into the habit of shaving overnight; it saved time in the mornings and during Richard’s absence enabled him to present himself to Linda freshly shaven. The kettle had been put on to heat the shaving water. ‘It’ll be ready in a minute?’ Will you drink a cup while you tell me what has happened?’
She was already calmer. To a degree she had succeeded in her plan. Simon, at least, was safe. Pointing to the dog, she said:
‘He bit Mr Mundford this afternoon.’ ‘Splendid dog I’ said Hadstock, so impulsively that Linda began to laugh; and then checked herself, knowing where laughter would lead. ‘It wasn’t funny,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Hadstock agreed instantly. ‘Like many most reasonable actions, it led to deplorable results. Sentence of death?’
‘Yes.’ He was making it easy for her. Busying himself taking the tea-making things from a little cupboard beside the fireplace, not looking at her, and making the horrible things sound almost ordinary.
The kettle boiled with a spurt and a hiss. Hadstock put tea in the pot, his big hands moving with a care and delicacy that held a hint of pathos.
‘He’ll be quite safe with me,’ he said, as he passed her a cup of tea. He pulled a stool out from under the table and sat down on it. He had seen how unsteady her hand was; his longing to comfort her was like a physical pain. ‘Now tell me all about it. When, and where, and how, and how much bitten is Mr Mundford?’
‘When was just after we had returned from our walk this afternoon; and where was in my little sitting-room. I’ve kept him—Simon—out of the way as much as possible, you know; kept him to my bedroom and that one room downstairs. We were there and Mr Mundford came
in, and that smell, the incense, came with him; he reeked of it. Simon bristled and flattened himself on the floor and went behind my chair. Mr Mundford said something about thinking Richard might be with me and he also said something about … what had happened earlier in the afternoon. Then he came close to me and mentioned this lace on my sleeve. A little while ago he remarked the lace on another dress; asked me was it Venetian, and just touched it. I happen to remember that, because when he did so his fingers were all bunched together as though he had rheumatism. He said that the lace on this dress wasn’t nearly so beautiful, and he just touched it too; not with his fingers all together this time, but more as though he were plucking something that hung from my wrist. Perhaps Simon thought he was taking something from me. He sprang at him, straight out from behind my chair, without warning. Fortunately Mr Mundford wears a very voluminous cravat, stiffly starched, otherwise his throat would have been bitten. As it is, only his cheek is lacerated. Here.’ She put her hand to the place on her own clear jaw-line. ‘I must say, in his favour, that he was very magnanimous about it. He said dogs always disliked him. But Richard was very angry and said Simon was vicious and must be destroyed. I just couldn’t bear that.’