“It’s a pity it was not laid long ago.”
“Ah, but he was such a beloved boy. If he had been a little less handsome, a little less charming, it would have been so much easier. The only way to forgetfulness is to replace him, and that can be done by a grandchild.”
“There is already Allegra.”
“Napier’s natural daughter! But she only reminds Sir William of an unfortunate occurrence.”
“It is scarcely her fault.”
“No indeed. But her presence does nothing to make Sir William forget. In fact at one time I believe he was contemplating sending Allegra away.”
“He seems fond of sending people away,” I blurted out.
Mrs. Lincroft looked at me coldly. I could see that she thought it presumptuous of me to criticize Sir William.
“You would understand that the presence of Allegra could be painful to him.”
“It is sad for the girl if he gives that impression.”
Again I appeared to be criticizing Sir William and she said rather shortly: “Allegra has always been a difficult child. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not been brought up here.”
“It must have been hard for her. A mother who deserted her, a father she did not know, and a grandfather who resents her.”
Mrs. Lincroft shrugged her shoulders. “I have done my best,” she said. “It’s not easy with a girl like Allegra. If she had been more like Alice…” She looked at me anxiously. “You find Alice…obedient?”
“I find her a charming girl—intelligent and well mannered.”
Mrs. Lincroft’s good humor was restored. “Ah,” she sighed. “I wish Allegra were more like her. That child is a little light-fingered, I fear.” I thought immediately of the scarf. “Oh, nothing criminal,” went on Mrs. Lincroft quickly, “but she is apt to think that other people’s property can be borrowed without first asking permission as long as she puts it back afterwards.”
“She seems afraid of her grandfather.”
“She is naturally in awe of him. So is Edith. But then she is so meek. Not that that is a fault in itself, but she is so nervous, nervous of everything. Frightened of thunder and lightning…frightened of giving offense. It will do her the world of good to produce a child.”
I said: “What in your opinion is at the bottom of this talk about a mysterious light in the chapel?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “The servants are all discussing it. I think it’s a trick played by someone who wants to keep the past alive.”
“But why?”
“Someone who has a grudge against Napier, perhaps. Or it might be just for mischief.”
“I suppose a ruin suggests a ghost.”
“The light was seen before the chapel was a ruin. As soon as Napier came back in fact. And then one night there was the blaze and since then the light has appeared again.”
“What does Napier think about it?”
She looked at me intently. “You, Mrs. Verlaine, would probably know that as well as I.”
So this quiet enigmatical woman was aware that Napier was not indifferent to me—nor I to him. I was uneasy and changed the subject. I mentioned the gardens and she was very ready to talk of flowers—which were a passion with her. Then the conversation flowed easily until I left her.
It was just after dusk. I was suffering a painful session at the piano with Allegra when Alice came in.
“I thought I would be ready when my turn came,” she said.
She sat in the window seat while I finished the lesson with Allegra and suddenly she called out: “There it is again. I saw it.”
Allegra got up from the piano and rushed to the window. I followed.
“It’s the light again,” said Alice. “I saw it clearly. Wait a minute. Look! There it is again.”
And sure enough the light was there. It flared up for a moment and remained steady like a light in a lighthouse and then all was dark.
“You saw it, Mrs. Verlaine,” said Alice.
“Yes I saw it.”
“No one could say it wasn’t there, could they?”
I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the dark copse. Then there it was again. It shone brightly through the darkness, lingered for a few seconds and was gone.
I was aware of Allegra breathing deeply beside me. I felt I owed her an apology and I had suspected her of playing the trick with the light; and now she was completely exonerated.
I had made up my mind that I was going to know the truth and one night at dark I slipped out of the house and made my way across the lawns to the copse.
I hesitated on the borders of it and an almost irresistible impulse to turn back came to me; it was so eerie and however much one scorns ghostly happenings by daylight and in company one is inclined to be less bold alone in the dark. The idea of going to the chapel—which had been my first intention—and waiting there now seemed, alarming. I stopped under one of the trees and peered into the gloom.
It would probably be a wasted effort, I told myself. Ghosts did not come to order. That was of course an excuse. Then I asked myself why I did not go back and suggest that Mrs. Lincroft or Alice accompany me. They might think I was overeager to prove that someone was playing a trick. I could not forget Mrs. Lincroft’s remark about Napier. A sudden thought struck me. What if Roma had wandered into the chapel one night? What if she had seen something which was not meant to be seen? The thought sent a shiver through me. I could well imagine Roma’s setting out skeptically determined to solve a mystery.
“Ghosts!” I could hear her rather strident voice saying. “What utter nonsense!”
But she would have been trespassing had she come here for although she had Sir William’s permission to dig on his estate that permission did not extend to his gardens. She was not, however, one to wait for permission if she wished to do something. But ghosts! As if she would worry about them! “What,” I could hear her voice demanding, “have lights in chapels to do with archaeology?”
I started to make my way cautiously through the copse; and now I could see the dark shadow which was the ruin. I came close to it and put out my hand to touch the cold stone. I will just look in, I promised myself, and then go back. After all I might wait here all the evening. I would come back later with a companion. Allegra and Alice would no doubt like to share in a watch.
Then suddenly I heard the sibilant whisper. It was the breeze in the trees, I told myself. But there was no breeze. It was undoubtedly the sound of voices; they were coming from the chapel and they were making me shiver from head to foot.
My impulse was to run back the way I had come but if I did I should despise myself. I was on the verge of discovery and I must go on.
In an endeavor to calm myself I made my way to the opening where the door had been, all the time my ears strained.
Voices again—two voices, one high pitched, one on a lower key…and they were whispering together.
Then the realization came to me. These two had not come to haunt the chapel. They had chosen this place to snatch a few moments together.
Edith’s voice. “You must not go.”
And another voice which replied: “My darling, it’s the only way. When I’ve gone you will forget me. You must try to be happy…”
Not wishing to eavesdrop on this tender lovers’ scene I moved away.
Edith had chosen to meet her lover in the ruined chapel; and this must surely be one of the last occasions when they would meet, for Jeremy Brown was leaving in a few days’ time for Africa.
I went quietly through the copse thinking that this could well be the solution. The chapel was a lovers’ rendezvous. Had they brandished the light to keep people away? I could scarcely imagine they would do that—but who would have believed that Edith was an unfaithful wife? When one probed below the surface one often found what one had least suspected.