The Sleeping Fury Read online

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  Half an hour later the guests were already thinning away and the set was over. Eric had hoped for another stroll with Sylvia Halnaker, but she had told him that she must go to the house, as her mother and father would probably be waiting for her. “Will you come and help me to find them?” she said, and Eric went with her across the lawn and through the house to the front hall. There they found Lady Mardale talking to Mr. and Mrs. Pennington.

  “Ah, there you are, my child,” she said. “I was just going to send Hanson to hunt for you.” She smiled at Eric. “Mr. Pennington tells me,” she said, “that you will be here for a week or two. I hope we shall see you at Haughton next Tuesday.”

  Eric glowed with pleasure. How comforting to know that he was to see Sylvia again in a few days! Everything seemed to be uniting to make his holiday happy. Lady Mardale and Sylvia shook hands with him, and, as they turned to go, they were joined by a short, clean-shaven man with grey hair. He was dressed as a clergyman. His eyes met Eric’s for a moment, and it seemed to Eric that he had never seen eyes so benevolent and so understanding.

  Chapter II

  When the car was clear of the lodge gates of the Manor House Lady Mardale leaned back and closed her eyes. She felt old and tired. The emotions of the last two hours had worn her out; yet even now she might have appeared to a casual observer the same self-possessed and impassive creature that she had seemed to young Danver at the garden-party. But Eric, if he had been able to inspect her again now, would have noticed the bluish discoloration of the weary eye-sockets and the hint of an increased bitterness in the droop of the mouth.

  Two hours earlier, as she had sat on the right of her husband, as she sat now, in the deep-cushioned Daimler on her way to the garden-party, she had looked forward with sharply conflicting feelings to revisiting that place which she had not seen for over twenty years, half dreading and half hungering for the emotions which the sight of the place would certainly arouse. But of one thing she had been certain—that, however deeply those emotions might be stirred, she would not lose her self-possession. No one would suspect the storm beneath the quiet surface. And, admitting that to herself, she recognised bitterly that even the most passionate feeling submits in the end to time. Even now, after twenty years, she was not convinced that her surrender had been for the best. It had been for her husband’s sake that she had surrendered; and yet, would the damage to him have been irreparable? Time can do so much. If it had tamed her own feelings, how much more easily would it have soothed his who had so many other resources of comfort. And as for the scandal, the public memory for such things is short. The scandal would have blown over years ago. In any case, her husband would have been blameless; he would have received nothing but sympathy. As the twenty-five miles between Haughton, their own place, and the Manor House had slipped past, she had paid no attention to the familiar landscape until the car had reached the point where the wandering by-road that led to the Penningtons’ struck off from the main turnpike. There she had roused herself and begun to look out at the gliding country. She had not been down that by-road since old Mr. Pennington had let the Manor House and had gone to live in a smaller place in Devonshire. The Mardales had not known the new people who had rented the place, and so there had been nothing during all these years to take them down the once familiar road. If the Penningtons had not left, the Mardales would, of course, have continued to frequent the place, and so the precious associations which, in one brief week, the place had acquired for her would have worn off by slow degrees. But her long absence had preserved them intact. Even the winding by-road had for her the sharp, heart-searching intensity of things too strongly charged with the past. She glanced sideways at her husband. Did he, she wondered, realise what she must be feeling? It had seemed that he did not, for he had met her eyes with his usual clear open look, and had begun to speak of the Penningtons.

  “Well, twenty years is a big price to pay for backing a losing horse, isn’t it, Charlotte? I’m glad Roger doesn’t follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  “And yet,” she had replied, “there was something about old Mr. Pennington that one misses in Roger.”

  Lord Mardale smiled. “Yes, it’s undeniable that he was a fine old boy, a gentleman of the old school. Yes, good or bad, he was more of a person than Roger.”

  “It was sad for him to die away from his old home,” said Lady Mardale, and there was in her voice a depth of sadness greater than her regret of the old man’s death.

  They had swung into the Penningtons’ lodge gates and up the shady drive, and soon they had drawn up at the front door, where three or four other cars had just deposited guests. These had kept Lady Mardale’s attention upon the fact of the garden-party, and shielded her from the memories which now began to crowd about her. It was a hot July day, and the flower-scented air of the wide hall struck deliciously cool as they entered from the blaze of sunshine which flooded the front of the house. Lady Mardale glanced round the hall like one in a dream, and noticed with profound relief that nothing had been altered. But yes; the curtain over the door into the dining-room was different. The old murrey-coloured one had gone, and a blue one hung in its place. That small change brought her a little stab of pain. She hoped that she would find no others; for each change in scenes which had become so precious to her would be for her the death of something to which, she now realised, she had clung desperately all these years. Would it not have been wiser to have remained at home and let these old memories rest? With what clearness she recalled the bright gold of his head as she had seen it once against the murrey-coloured curtain when he had risen from his chair to be introduced to her; and at that vision he himself came back to her now with an actuality beside which the people moving past her in the hall seemed no more than ghosts. “Maurice! Maurice!” Her heart called out his name though her lips remained closed. How was it possible to realise that a creature so vivid was dead? That his hair, that bright golden hair … For a moment her mind plunged helplessly in mist. Then, with a violent effort, she controlled herself. Something was touching her hands; she was standing in the hall, and a cheerful voice was saying: “Dear Charlotte, how nice to see you again.” Amy Pennington had taken both her hands, and now she and her husband and Sylvia were being led by their hostess across the hall to the garden door.

  As she stepped out into the garden, it had seemed to her that she was two women. The one talked to Amy Pennington and took stock of the company of men and women scattered over the paths and lawns and among the shadows of the trees, recognising friends and acquaintances, making mental notes of those that she must seek out and talk to, and impassively aware of that other woman within her, crying out inaudibly and stretching out her hands to the beloved garden which had so faithfully preserved her precious memories through all these years, and waited now to receive her again. How she longed for the crowd to melt away, so that she could throw aside all pretence and revisit alone all those dear spots where the memories crowded most thickly—the grass walk under the elm-avenue, where they had strolled together that afternoon, talking happily and freely as if they had known each other all their lives; the broad walk where they had stopped to admire the late dahlias and Michaelmas daisies; and, most of all, the centre of the yew-garden, where in the early morning they had sat by the little fountain, enclosed safely within the triple yew-hedge, with the yew-tree birds and beasts standing fantastically against the blue sky. “What a good thing,” she thought to herself, “that I’m no longer alive as I was then.” It would have been impossible, if the passionate half of her had not been numbed and starved, to preserve appearances as she was preserving them now. No, there was no fear now of her breaking down; yet she wished that she had not come, for she felt painfully that it was sacrilege to preserve such calm self-possession in that place; to behave, and to be able to behave, as if it were no more to her than to all those other guests. Ah, but wasn’t the fact that it really was so much more enough? He would know, if the dead can know anything of the living, all that was in her heart, all that the hidden, inarticulate woman was suffering. And, if he had no knowledge of her now, at least she herself knew, and that was sufficient. She shook hands and talked for a moment with Roger Pennington, and then turned to meet a woman in dark red who was hurrying towards her and Sylvia. Lord Mardale had moved away and was talking to a tall woman in navy-blue and a red-faced man in a large black-and-white check. “The Crofts. Yes, I must talk to the Crofts later,” she thought as she grasped the outstretched hand of the woman in red. “Why, Winifred, this is an unexpected pleasure! And what are you doing here?”

  The round, good-humoured face smiled back at her. “I’m with the Kemptons for a few days.”

  The two women and Sylvia made their way slowly across the lawn. Then young John Pennington came and took Sylvia away to tennis, and during the next half-hour Lady Mardale moved from group to group and from sunshine to shadow over the soft turf, shaded here and there by the great trees. Then she had found herself sitting solitary for a moment in the drawing-room with a cup in her hand. The friend who sat near her had turned away and was talking to someone on her other side. In that pause Lady Mardale’s buried self awoke again, and her eyes explored the so familiar room. But it was hard to find him there in that crowd of the living who filled the room with the hum of their talk and hid so much of it from her with the opaque mass of their bodies. How unreal they all seemed, eating and drinking and chattering there, and obscuring the burning reality which her heart sought for.

  And then, as if her reality had suddenly taken shape, that golden-haired young man had come up to her chair carrying two plates, and held them before her. For a moment it had seemed to her that a miracle had happened—that Maurice had come back to her; and her heart had lifted as if on a great wave. Next moment it sank, and the illusion died; yet even then, for some inexplicable reason, the appearance in that room and at that moment of this beautiful young man, so like the man she had loved, was deeply consoling. She felt that he had come to her there as a sign that the past was not dead, that her memories were as real as the life of the present. She had already finished her tea, but she took one of the cakes he offered her, and ate it because he had offered it—how could she have refused?—and as he passed on, offering his plates to others, she followed the bright head through the crowd.

  She had wakened now from her dream and had mastered the emotion that the boy’s sudden appearance had aroused in her. He was half way across the room now, and he turned his head so that she saw his face. Already he looked different. Was he really so like that other, or had she, with her thoughts so full of him, imagined a likeness? He was obviously much younger—still little more than a boy. Maurice had been thirty-one when they met. The colour of his hair and the extraordinary blue of his eyes were exactly the same; but the features … She tried to recall Maurice’s face, and found with a pang that it was no longer clear to her mind. She no longer knew the exact shape of his nose and mouth. But his brow she remembered, the beautifully modelled brow with the eyebrows tilted slightly upwards over the temples. A sigh escaped her. No, the boy was probably not like him at all except in colour and in a certain English neatness of feature. Then her neighbour spoke to her again, and then the boy came back and asked if he could get her another cup of tea. How nice he was! She could regard him more calmly now. She refused more tea. “But what about yourself; have you had some tea?” she asked. He took her empty cup and put it down on a table. “Yes, I’ve had some, thank you,” he said, and she kept him beside her talking about … she had already forgotten what. He had seemed a little shy at being detained there, and, after a minute or two, she had let him go and had herself risen from her chair and gone to overtake Mrs. Croft, who was at that moment making for the door. With Mrs. Croft she had gone out into the garden, and again the garden had called to her with its voiceless appeal. If only the crowd of guests would vanish, and leave house and garden deserted, so that Maurice and she could have the place to themselves!

  Then Roger Pennington had taken possession of her, and they had strolled away from the other guests, talking of old times and his plans for the future now that he had got the old place back. “I hope,” she had said, in her matter-of-fact voice, “that you’re not going to alter the garden”; and she had felt an immense relief when he had replied that he was determined to keep the garden exactly as it had always been. They had been strolling in the direction of the square yew-garden, and she had said, herself noticing the tonelessness of her voice: “I’m glad they kept the yew-hedges in order”; and with a trembling heart she turned with Roger under the arch of yew into the garden, and followed the narrow yew-walled path that wound towards the centre.

  “But the stone rim of the basin will have to be repaired,” he said; “and the fountain, too, is out of order.”

  They emerged into the little square in the centre, closely walled with yew, with stone seats set in recesses in the walls and formal beds of aromatic herbs—lavender, southernwood, rosemary, and thyme—grouped about the stone-rimmed pool in the centre, in which the metal jet of the fountain showed above the surface of the still water. How peaceful and secret it was there! It seemed as if some part of her had actually expected to find him sitting there, and now drooped in disappointment. She sat down on one of the stone seats. Roger turned anxiously. “Your dress,” he said. “I’m afraid the seats are not very clean.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. What did her dress matter? What did anything that concerned this present life matter?

  “A friend of mine who is now dead,” Roger was saying, “once promised to send me a statue for the fountain. He used to stay with us in London, and once, before he left England for the last time, he stayed here. Perhaps you met him here? But I don’t suppose you remember. Maurice Wainwright was his name.”

  “Yes, I do remember him,” said Lady Mardale. Her voice was quite colourless, and she sat coldly and fixedly gazing in front of her.

  So there was still something of him here, in this spot where they had sat together and kissed. “A dear fellow,” Roger was saying. “He was enchanted with this place. It was after he stayed here that he promised to send me the little piece of statuary—a nymph or a faun or something of the kind—for the fountain. ‘You shall have it when the place becomes yours,’ he said. ‘I shan’t forget.’ But now that the place has become mine the poor chap isn’t here to remember. But I shall have it done myself some day when I come across something suitable.”

  For some moments Lady Mardale had not spoken. She was lost in thought. She was reflecting on what Roger Pennington had told her. It was after he had been here that he had promised the statue. He had wanted, she understood, to leave here, in the spot so precious to both of them, some memorial of their love. And now she herself would do what he had wished to do.

  “Yes, Roger,” she said; “that is a good idea, and you must let me give you the statue.”

  “But, my dear Charlotte …”

  “Please, Roger. It would be a real pleasure. This is my favourite place in the garden, you know.”

  Roger accepted gratefully; but Charlotte Mardale had surprised him. He had never suspected her, with her strange lack of warmth, of any such romantic feeling as she had just shown. She had never before expressed any particular fondness for the yew-garden; in fact, as far as he knew, she had never been into it before. Strange creature! Though he had known her intimately for thirty years, she had always rather puzzled him, and now she was puzzling him more than ever. They left the yew-garden and paced slowly up the long walk that ran parallel with the garden-front of the house, talking again of his return to the Manor House and the general business of the estate. In such matters her advice was often as valuable as her husband’s, for she was an admirable business woman. But how surprising, that sudden romantic impulse of hers about the fountain! Not that she was not generous; but her generosity had always taken a strictly practical turn before. They reached the end of the broad walk and turned round, and, as they began to retrace their steps, she saw the golden-headed boy again, walking away from them towards the tennis-courts with John Pennington.

  “Who is that nice boy with John?” she asked. “I talked to him at tea.”

  “He’s a friend of John’s,” said Roger, “who arrived to-day for a fortnight. They were at Oxford together. His name is Eric Danver. I don’t know who his people are. We see him in London from time to time. Yes, a very nice fellow.”

  And then, when she was talking to Amy Pennington in the hall just before leaving, he had appeared again with Sylvia. She could see in his eyes that Sylvia fascinated him, and her heart warmed towards him. And, so that they should not lose sight of him, she had asked him to come with the Penning-tons to Haughton.

  Lying back now in the car with closed eyes, she knew that she was glad that she had gone to the garden-party. She had been deeply moved during those two hours; old happinesses and old sorrows had risen again and swept her like waves; she had been alive, alive as she had not been for years. It had been painful, but the pain had brought with it, not bitterness, but a sweetness that warmed and comforted her heart.

  “You’re tired,” said her husband’s voice beside her.

  She opened her eyes. “I am rather tired,” she said. “But I enjoyed the afternoon. Didn’t you?”

  Chapter III

  After the day of the garden-party the weather had turned dull, as if in harmony with Charlotte Mardale’s mood of resigned calm which had followed the emotions roused by her return to the Manor House. Haughton, that calm Palladian house built by the sixth Lord Mardale on the site of the dilapidated Elizabethan hall which had been the home of the Halnakers, encouraged that mood. The delicately tinted walls of its rooms, the blue of the dining-room and the morning-room, the duck-egg green of the drawing-room, and the grey of her own boudoir, the pure plasterwork of the ceilings, the classic restraint of the carved white marble mantelpieces, were the visible expression of a calm and beautiful self-discipline. How different from the richness and mystery of the Manor House!