“I try to…until the worst is proved.”
“A philosopher as well as a musician. What a combination!”
“You are laughing at me.”
“Sometimes it is very pleasant to laugh. But I cannot hope that your beneficent attitude extends to me. When the mark of the beast is as clearly defined, the most kindly philosophers must accept it.”
“The mark of the beast…” I echoed.
“Oh yes, it was put on me when I killed my brother.” He put his hand to his forehead. “It’s there, you know…No one fails to see it. You will if you look, Mrs. Verlaine. And if you do not see it there will be plenty to point it out.”
I said: “You should not talk in that way. You sound…bitter.”
“I?” He opened his eyes wide and laughed. “No…only realistic. You will see. And once the mark of the beast is set upon a man…or woman…only a miracle can remove it.”
The sun was shining on the water and it was as though a giant hand had scattered diamonds over it. Across that dazzling strip of water I could just make out the masts on the Goodwins. I looked down on the towns in the distance and from this spot it seemed as though the houses were falling into the sea.
Neither of us spoke.
He left me in the courtyard and I went up to my room feeling very disturbed by the encounter.
Later that afternoon, having half an hour to spare, I went into the gardens. I had had an opportunity of exploring them and although I admired the terraces and the parterres my favorite spot was the little enclosed garden which I had discovered on my first day. A luscious green Virginia creeper covered one wall and I imagined the splash of scarlet it would be with the coming of the autumn. Inside these four walls there was peace and I felt I needed to be alone to think, for Napier Stacy had disturbed me more than I cared to admit.
I had been sitting on the seat looking into the lily pond for some seconds when I was suddenly aware that I was not alone.
Miss Stacy had been standing by the green shrubs at the far end of the garden, so still, that I had not noticed her; she was wearing a green dress which had seemed like part of the bush. It was an uncanny feeling when I realized that she must have been watching me through those silent seconds.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Verlaine,” she cried gaily. “This is a favorite spot of yours. I know.” She tripped toward me lifting her finger and coyly shaking it at me. I saw the little green bows in her hair—the color of her dress.
She must have noticed my gaze for she touched them lightly. “Whenever I have a new dress I have my bows made at the same time. I have bows for every dress that way.” A look of satisfaction spread across her face as though she were inviting me to comment on her cleverness. Her movements and her voice were so youthful that it was a shock when she came so close that I could see the smudges of brown on her neck and hands and the wrinkles round the blue eyes. In fact then she seemed older than she actually was.
“You’ve changed since you came here,” she announced.
“Oh? Is that possible? In such a short time.”
She sat beside me. “It’s peaceful here. It’s a lovely little garden, don’t you think? But of course you do. You wouldn’t come here if you didn’t, would you? One gets the impression that one is shut away from the world. But one isn’t, you know.”
“Of course not.”
“You would realize that. I think you are very clever, Mrs. Verlaine. I think you know about a lot of things as well as music.”
“Thank you.”
“And…I’m glad you came. I have definitely made up my mind to paint your portrait.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Oh but it might be unkind.” She laughed “Some artists are unkind. At least their subjects think they are…because they paint what they see and it could be something the subject might not want seen.”
“At least I should be interested to discover what you see in me.”
She nodded. “Not yet though…I have to wait a while.”
“We have only met once.”
She began to laugh. “But I’ve seen you many times, Mrs. Verlaine. I’m very interested in you.”
“How good of you.”
“Then again it might not be good. It all depends.”
She clasped her hands like a young girl who is hugging a secret to herself. Here was another member of this household who made me feel uncomfortable.
“I saw you come in today,” she said. And she nodded several times like a mandarin. “With Napier,” she added.
I was glad that my skin did not flush and so betray my embarrassment.
“We met by accident…at the Roman remains,” I said rather hotly and then realized I was foolish to more or less offer an excuse.
She did her three or four little nods which I gathered were to denote wisdom.
“You are very interested in these remains, Mrs. Verlaine.”
“Who wouldn’t be. They are of national interest.”
She turned to me and regarded me coyly from under those shriveled lids. “But some people in the nation are more interested than others. You will agree with that.”
“Inevitably.”
She stood up and clasped her hands together. “I could show you some remains…closer at hand. Would you like to see them?”
“Remains?” I said.
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Come,” She held out a hand and I could do nothing but take it. Hers was cold and very soft. I dropped it as soon as I could.
“Yes,” she said, “we have some remains here. You must see them now that you are becoming so interested in us all.”
She tripped to the wrought-iron gate and opening it stood there poised like an ancient fairy, her expression conspiratorial. I caught her excitement and asked myself why nothing seemed to be ordinary in this house.
“Remains,” she murmured as though to herself. “Yes, you could call them remains. Not Roman though this time. Still, there’s no reason why the Stacys shouldn’t have remains if the Romans had them.” She gave her high-pitched titter.
I passed through the gate; she shut it and was beside me, then she tripped past leading the way and turning to smile at me in her little girl manner.
She took me through a shrubbery to a part of the garden in which I had never been before. We followed a path and came to a little copse of fir trees—thick, bushy evergreens.
There was a path through the trees and as she tripped along this and I followed I wondered whether she was more than slightly mad.
But at last I saw the object of this visit. It looked like a white circular tower; she ran on ahead.
“Come on, Mrs. Verlaine,” she called. “This is the remains.”
I hurried after her and I saw that the tower was gutted and that the inside walls were blackened by fire. It was not large—just a circular wall; the roof had been partially destroyed and it was possible to see the sky.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A shell,” she answered in a sepulchral voice. “A burned-out shell.”
“When was it burned?”
“Not very long ago.” And she added significantly: “Since Napier came home.”
“What was it meant to be?”
“It was a little chapel in the woods…a beautiful little chapel and it was built in honor of Beaumont.”
“You mean as a sort of memorial?”
Her eyes lit up. “How clever you are, Mrs. Verlaine. It was a memorial, a memorial to Beau. After he was killed his father built this chapel so that he could come here…or any of us could…and be silent, shut away in the woods where we could think of Beaumont. It stood here for years and then—”