“Starve, I expect,” said Sylvia.
“I’d go off with the gypsies,” put in Allegra. “They neither toil nor do they spin.”
“That was the lilies of the field,” explained Alice. “Gypsies toil. They make baskets and clothes pegs.”
“That’s not toiling. That’s fun.”
“It’s meant…” Alice paused and said with effort: “figuratively.”
“People who make shirts get very little money,” said Alice. “They work by candlelight all day and all night and they die of consumption because they don’t get enough fresh air and food.”
“How horrible!”
“It’s life. Thomas Hood wrote a wonderful poem about it.”
Alice began to quote in a deep sepulchral voice:
“Stitch, stitch, stitch,
In poverty hunger and dirt.
Stitching at once with a double thread
A shroud as well as a shirt.”
“Shroud,” screeched Allegra. “These aren’t shrouds; they’re pillowcases.”
“Well,” said Alice coolly, “they didn’t think they were stitching shrouds. They thought they were shirts.”
I interrupted them and said what a ghoulish conversation. Wasn’t it time Alice put her pillowcase-cum-shroud away and came to the piano?
Neatly she folded her work, threw back her hair and rose obediently.
Lovat Stacy was indeed haunted—by the gypsy Serena Smith. I often saw her near the house, and once or twice strolling across the garden. She did not do this furtively but as if by right and I was becoming more and more convinced that she was Allegra’s mother. That would account for her proprietary air and her insolence.
Coming into the house one day I heard her voice—shrill and carrying.
“You’d better, hadn’t you?” she was saying. “You wouldn’t want to go against me, would you? Ha. There’s people here that wouldn’t like me telling things about them but you more than anyone, I reckon. That’s the way I see it. So there’ll be none of this talk about ‘Get the gypsies off.’ The gypsies are here to stay…see!”
There was silence and I thought sick at heart: Napier, oh Napier. What trouble you have brought on yourself. How could you become involved with a woman like this!
Then the voice again. “Oh yes, Amy Lincroft…Amy Lincroft. I could let out some secrets about you and your precious daughter, couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that.”
“Amy Lincroft.” Not Napier!
I was about to turn away when Serena Smith came out. She was running and her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling. How like Allegra she looked—Allegra in a mischievous mood!
“Why,” she cried, “if it’s not the music lady! Ear to the ground, eh, lady…or to the keyhole?” She burst out laughing, and I could do nothing but walk into the hall.
No one was there and I wondered whether Mrs. Lincroft had heard her remarks. She must have. But I expected she was too embarrassed to talk to me.
At dinner Mrs. Lincroft was as cool and calm as ever. “I hope you like the way I’ve cooked this beef, Mrs. Verlaine. Alice, take this beef tea up to Sir William, will you? And when you come down I’ll be ready to serve.”
Alice carried the dainty tray out of the room and I said what an obedient child she was.
“It’s a great comfort to me that she should be so,” said Mrs. Lincroft. My thoughts immediately went to the words of the gypsy; and I wondered once again whether there ever had been a Mr. Lincroft or whether Alice was the result of a youthful indiscretion. This could be likely for I had never heard Mr. Lincroft mentioned.
Mrs. Lincroft seemed to read my thoughts for she said: “I do wish Mrs. Rendall would not interfere with the gypsies. They’re doing no harm.”
“She certainly seems determined to drive them away.”
“If only she were as gentle and peace-loving as her husband how much more comfortable life would be for us.”
“And for the vicar and Sylvia particularly.”
Mrs. Lincroft nodded.
“I expect you’ve guessed who this Serena Smith is. You’ve heard some of the family history.”
“You mean she’s AIlegra’s mother.”
Mrs. Lincroft nodded. “It’s all so unfortunate. Why ever she was allowed to come here in the first place I can’t imagine. She worked in the kitchen…though she did little work. And then of course she became embroiled with Napier…and Allegra was the result. It all came out immediately after Beaumont’s death when Napier was preparing to leave. She stayed here till the child was born and then she went.”
“Poor Allegra!”
“I came back and looked after her in time…It suited me well as I was able to bring Alice with me.”
“Yes,” I said sympathetically.
“And now here she is again…ready to make trouble unless we allow the gypsies to stay. That would be all right. They would never stay long. But that dreadful interfering woman has to try to make an issue of it. Do you know I believe she likes to make trouble.”
At that moment Mrs. Lincroft really looked troubled; there was a frown between her eyes and she bit her lips, lowering her eyes as she did so.
Alice came back; she was a little flushed and her eyes were dancing.
“He’s taking it Mamma. He said it was very good and that no one knew how to make it just like you.”
“Then he is a little better.”
“And it is all thanks to you, Mamma,” said Alice.
“Come to the table, my dear,” said Mrs. Lincroft, “and I’ll serve.”
I thought how pleasant it was to see the affection between those two.
Sir William was a little better, for the next day Mrs. Lincroft joyfully told me that he had expressed a desire to hear me play. He had not been told about the fire. There was no need to upset him, said Mrs. Lincroft and I agreed with her. Since that unfortunate occasion when I had played Danse Macabre I had not been to the room next to his. I could quite imagine why not. Any reminder of that day would be most distressing to him. However, it was clearly a good sign that he had asked for me to play.
“Something light and quiet that you have played before,” said Mrs. Lincroft. “He hasn’t chosen. He’s not really well enough. But you will know.”
“Schumann, I should think,” I said.
“I am sure you’re right. And not too long…”
I was a little nervous remembering that other occasion; but as soon as I played I felt better. After half an hour I stopped playing and as I turned from the piano I was startled to see someone in the room—a woman with her back to me wearing a hat of black lace trimmed with pink roses. She was looking up at the picture of Beau and for a moment I thought that this was indeed the dead Isabella. Then there was a laugh and Sybil turned to face me.
“I startled you,” she whispered.
I admitted. “If Sir William had seen you,” I said, “he might have…”
She shook her head. “He couldn’t leave his chair. And it was your playing that shocked him.”
“I played only what was put out for me.”
“Oh, I know. I know. I’m not blaming you, Mrs. Verlaine.” She laughed. “So you thought you really had lured my sister-in-law from the grave by your playing? Confess it.”
“You intended me to think that, did you?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t want to frighten you. I just didn’t think of it. I put on my hat because I thought of going into the garden. And I came in here instead. You didn’t hear me. You were so absorbed in your music. You are all right now. I don’t frighten you, do I? You are very calm, you know, even now after what happened in that cottage. You’re like Mrs. Lincroft. She has to be cool, doesn’t she, for fear of betraying herself. Do you have to be calm for the same reason?”