A memory flashed into my mind of Alice standing before me gravely quoting:
“They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.”
I was almost at the edge of the copse but the trees were still thick about me when suddenly a figure loomed up behind me. I turned sharply and in that moment there came to me the absurd belief that I was about to come face to face with the ghost of Beaumont.
It was Napier, I saw almost immediately, and my relief was obvious.
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”
“I was temporarily startled, that was all.”
“You look as though you’ve been seeing ghosts. One is said to walk, you know, in this copse.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You did a moment ago. Confess it.”
“For a second.”
“I believe you are a little disappointed. You would have liked to come face to face with a ghost, wouldn’t you…the ghost of my dead brother, for he is the one who is said to haunt this spot.”
“If I had come face to face with him I should have asked him most severely what good he thought he was doing here.”
He smiled. “You are bold,” he said. “Here you are…in the copse at night. Yet you defy the ghost. Would you dare to go to the ruin now and repeat what you have just said?”
“I should say there what I say here.”
“Then I challenge you.”
In the pale light of the moon I caught the gleam of his eyes and the cynical twist of his lips; and I thought of the lovers in the ruin and I wondered what his reaction would be if he found them there. I wanted very much to know the answer to this but I was absolutely certain that at all costs he must be prevented from going to the ruin now. I believed that Edith and Jeremy Brown were two innocent children who had been caught up in circumstances too strong for them; the very fact that Jeremy Brown was proposing to renounce her and go away proved that. I felt an urgent need to protect and preserve their secret, so I said: “I don’t accept that challenge.”
He smiled at me sardonically. Let him think me a coward. What did that matter as long as Edith was not exposed?
“But who knows what you might discover if you did?” he asked slyly.
“I am not afraid of ghosts.”
“Then why not come there with me…now.”
I turned away but as I moved toward the edge of the copse he came after me and laid a hand on my arm.
“You are afraid of something,” he said. “Confess it.”
“There is a chill in the air.”
“Afraid of catching cold?”
My impulse was to leave him, but if I did so and he returned to the chapel and found the lovers…what would he do? I knew that I must try to stop that. So I did not move; nor did he; he stood beside me looking across the gardens to the house.
At last he spoke lightly. “You shouldn’t be afraid, you know. Nor should anyone else. I’m the one he comes back to haunt.”
“What nonsense.”
“On the contrary—once you accept the existence of ghosts it’s perfectly logical. I banished him from this house. He resents my return. You follow the reasoning.”
“It is all of the past,” I said impatiently. “It should be forgotten.”
“Can you forget at will? Can you?”
“It is not easy, but one can try.”
“You must set me a good example.”
“I?”
“You who have so much to forget…too.” He took a step nearer to me. “Don’t you see it gives us so much in common?”
“So much?” I said. “I should have thought we had very little in common.”
“Would you…would you indeed. Do you know, Mrs. Verlaine, I’m going to be bold and contradict you.”
“I’m sure that does not need a great deal of courage.”
“And if I am going to prove myself right, you are going to need a certain amount of tolerance.”
“Why?”
“Because you will be forced to endure my company now and then to give me a chance to prove my case.”
“I can scarcely believe that you wish for much of my company.”
“There, Mrs. Verlaine, I must again contradict you.”
I was alarmed. I drew a little away from him. “I don’t understand you,” I said.
“It’s quite simple. You interest me.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Surely others have found you interesting. One person did at least. I am referring to your genius.”
I said hastily: “Then I wish you would not refer to him in that way. He did have genius, and it’s no use your sneering at that simply because—”
“Simply because I lack all the accomplishments that were his. That’s what you mean. What a poor figure I must cut in comparison.”
“I never thought for one moment of comparing you.”
I was uneasy. What did he mean? Was this a kind of inverted flirtation? It was like a scene from a French farce Pietro and I once saw at the Comédie Française. His wife was with her lover in part of the wood; he was with me talking in this enigmatic way in another.
I should have walked across the lawns to the house and left him. But if he went back to the copse…Perhaps that was partly an excuse. Perhaps I wanted to stay. Perhaps I was only partly repelled—and a great deal fascinated.
These people’s complicated affairs were not my concern, I kept reminding myself. Yet I was desperately sorry for Edith, and I knew that the worst thing that could happen to her was for her to be found in a compromising position with her lover. This man did not care for her; but what would his action be if he found himself cuckolded? And if Edith were going to have a child which he would disown…this house would see another tragedy.
“You should forgive me if I am too blunt,” he was saying as he had said before, and his voice was suddenly soft and caressing. “You see, I was seventeen when I shot my brother and when my mother killed herself because of it.” He almost relished the words, I thought, speaking slowly, savoring them. “And then I went to the other side of the world. It was a different life…one lived…rough. One did not enjoy the company of ladies such as yourself.”
“And your wife?” I said.
“Edith is a child,” he said dismissing her.
But I would not allow her to be dismissed. “She is young yet. That is something which we have all been once and it is quickly remedied.”
“We have no interests in common.” The second time he had used that phrase. I thought with horror: He is comparing us. He is telling me he prefers me. I thought of Allegra’s mother—the wild gypsy—what had his wooing of her been?
“Interests between married people are built up over the years,” I said primly.
“You take an idealized view of marriage, Mrs. Verlaine. But then you enjoyed such a perfect one yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said fiercely. “Yes.”
And again I felt that mockery.
“I should like to have met you…before…”
“Whatever for?”
“To see how it changed you. You were a music student, eager for fame. They all are, I believe. All the glories of the world are within the grasp. I’ll swear you heard the applause of enraptured audiences as you sat at your piano.”
“And you…what did you experience before…”
I stopped and he finished for me. “Before I fired the fatal shot. Oh, envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness.”
“Why do you want me to think you are so wicked?”
“Because I would rather tell you myself than wait for other people to do so…Caroline.”
I drew away from him.
“Ah, I’ve offended you. I should not use your Christian name. ‘Mrs. Verlaine, how do you do? What a nice day it is. It’s going to rain.’ That’s how I should talk to you. How dull. How inexpressibly dull. In Australia we never had conversation. There never seemed the time. I used to think of being home…gracious living as it would have been if Beau had lived. I could talk to him. He was witty, amusing; he knew how to enjoy life. That was why it was said that I was envious of him. Envy is the deadliest of the seven deadly sins, did you know?”