CHAPTER 60
It was a fine June morning when Nick Marsmain rode up the avenue on his black stallion which Hughy had brought to meet him at Fermoy.
Within the house there was a great flurry of excitement. Calm in her plain calico
gown, her hair brushed and shining, Caroline waited on the terrace. Lord Ballinmore, restless and uneasy, paced up and down. He was
ready with many questions to which his son gave swift, abrupt answers. Yes,
there was great unrest. All Wexford was up in arms. A whole-scale rising might
be imminent. The north was seething. But the rebellion would be quashed. Blood
would flow. Let them die for
Brushing aside his father's questions,
Nick hurried towards the object of his eyes’ delight. Caroline stared at him,
scarcely believing. How handsome he looked. How the sight of him wrung her
heart, as it always had done. He had flung off his greatcoat. His uniform
fitted like a glove, revealing the perfection of his lean, muscular figure,
every line enhanced by superb tailoring. The braid on his jacket glittered in
the sun. His spurs tinkled. He was her knight. His eyes compelled her with the
old mesmeric physical attraction. She dared not move.
He sprang up the steps and swept her in his arms. How lovely she was, his
Caroline with the blue-green eyes and the shining hair. She seemed to melt into
his embrace; her mouth was warm and eager for his kisses.
“My lovely Caroline,” he said, holding
her at arms' length so he could study her face, “how brave you have been to
live alone in this great house. I trust you feel it is your home. I believed
you could come to terms with it. It is not easy to be the lady of a great
house. You have done very well. But what of our child?”
“There is no child. It was a false
.....”
“You might have told me. But we have
another chance; this time there must be no mistake .....
eh, my girl?”
His look of undisguised desire
overwhelmed her. It would be so easy to forget every obligation except that of
being the wife of his desire. All that his name and status and admiration could
bestow were hers; all she had to do was submit without question. She allowed
herself to bask in the sun of his adoration, for the moment powerful in the
knowledge that she had command as only a young and lovely woman has over her
man. Was not this worth the barter of a quirk of conscience? Gwendaline would have said so had she been there; but she
had gone. She had no one but herself to turn to.
They stood for a while, his arm about
her, looking out over the lawns and the lake out to the woods and the blue
hills, all they surveyed theirs and their heirs for as far as the eye could see
or the mind imagine; all else was mirage. They dined on salmon, fresh from the
river. The table was bright and pretty with flowers as it had been for La Pace.
In a moment of sentiment, Caroline had asked the cook to make meringues.
A scent of roses, warm in the
afternoon sun, floated in by the open window. Ballinmore
was loquacious, even jovial and his son and he seemed on the best of terms. How
would it be when Nick discovered his father’s romantic involvement with Gwendaline? But surely Gwen would not dream of marrying
this old man. Caroline put the thought from her mind. She basked in the sun of
her husband's approval.
Determined to give him no cause for
grievance, she had banished Maureen from the little dressing-room and replaced
his mother’s water-colour in its former position; there was nothing to show
that she had discovered the secret cupboard ..... nothing except the slim gold band that clasped her thigh.
Her face grew grave as she remembered it ..... the other discovery. Nick was smiling at her. Every now and
then, in the course of the conversation, he deferred to her. Their shoulders
brushed. Time and again, he clasped her hand under the table. He fed her
meringues as though they were kisses. Bewitched by his caresses, she began to
doubt her own judgement of him. It must be Ballinmore’s
fault that the crippled brother was kept a prisoner in the tower. Perhaps Nick
disapproved. She would talk to him. He would explain everything. He would see
justice done.
They strolled out on the terrace
hand-in-hand. The lake was shimmering under the declining sun. The paths were
dry. They walked by the still waters, his arm about her waist. He drew her into
the rose arbour and there they remained, locked in a lovers’ embrace, hardly
speaking. She touched the scar on his cheek, gently tracing its faint line.
They said the scar had been for a long gone foolish love; her love would leave
no scar. Suddenly she drew away from him.
“What is the matter, my darling?” he
asked, “did something startle you?”
She shook her head, but made no reply.
For minutes silence hung between them like a silken arras of susurrating waters and sighing trees. A silvery moon stared
blankly from a darkening sky. Caroline shivered.
“Come,” he said, “let us return to the
house. The air grows chilly and you have only a thin shawl.”
“I am not cold, Nick; there is something
I must ask you. I cannot be completely happy till you have reassured me.”
“If you need assurance that I love
you, then your question is answered. Surely you can see .....”
“It is not that.”
“Then you think I have been
neglectful. I can explain.”
“You need not.”
“Surely you do not think I have been
unfaithful. I swear I have not been.”
He was lying. She guessed that and she
did not care very much. She had seen enough of fashionable society to know its
usages. She did not wish to hear him swear that he had kissed no rosy mouth
since hers.
“Hush Nick,” she said softly, “let us
not quibble over trifles. I have a more serious
question to ask. I must know the plain truth.”
How sweet she had been just minutes
before, how gentle and yielding in his arms. Now she stood, erect and adamant
at arms' length, looking solemn, demanding the answer to some perverse
question. Yet he must humour her. She was the wife he had chosen. How trying a
wife could be; all that his rakish companions had suggested was too patently
true.
“What is this so important question?”
he asked testily.
“Is your brother really dead, Nick?”
“What a preposterous thing to ask! And
quite unnecessary, since I have already told you all there is to tell. William died
of fever. His coffin rests in the family vault. He was always delicate. It is
doubtful if he could have survived to reach manhood even if he had not caught
the fever.”
“Poor William! How distressed your mother must have
been.”
“I believe she was. I am told she was
a bright, lively young woman. I remember her, as you do, remote and melancholy.
I suppose she brooded a great deal. She never talked of William. Perhaps it
pained her, or perhaps she did not wish to upset my father.”
“She loved him then?”
“I do not think she ever loved him as
a wife should. She did what was expected of her as a dutiful wife and mistress
of a great house. She observed the social conventions to perfection. Otherwise,
she followed her own devices: painting, visiting the tenants, supervising the
school for girls to learn handicrafts. Father did as many men do in such a
situation; he found his consolations elsewhere. There were other women. And
there was Daly's club.”
“The gaming club in Dame Street in
Dublin?”
“Yes. He was not a lucky gambler. My
mother brought him a fortune. He gambled much of it away. Maybe that is why she
appeared to resent him. Not that they quarrelled much. They lived like
strangers.”
Caroline had been listening with
interest. He had been trying, as he talked, to steer her towards the house, but
she evaded his intention by loitering, looking back towards the lake.
“I should like to see where William
lies,” she said suddenly.
“What a peculiar wish. Rather morbid
really. But, of course, if you still wish it, I promise to take you one day.”
“Why not now?”
“Are you teasing me, Caroline? It is
quite dark in the vault. You may find it frightening.”
“It is always dark in a vault, Nick;
the daylight makes no difference. I want to go now. Please Nick, I mean what I
say.”
His laugh, though derisive, made no
difference. Her face had its stubborn look.
“Very well,” he said, “if I must
indulge your macabre taste, then let us go.”
He took a little-used path through the
shrubbery, striding ahead impatiently. He had not walked that path since the
day of his mother's burial and of this he had no wish to be reminded. Presently
they came to a small private chapel lurking among mournful yew trees. In the
vault below its flagged floor rested the bones of those proud ancestors whose
fixed expressions past artists had committed to canvas to intimidate those who
would be intimidated. Caroline recalled their blank stares as she squelched
through the dewy grass, her gown flapping wetly about her ankles. Nick showed
no concern. Perhaps if she got her feet wet she might desist. Perhaps the
eeriness of the unlighted chapel among the brooding trees would discourage her.
He pushed open the rusting gate and
followed a narrow path to the chapel door, then waited in the porch till she
caught up with him. He felt her shudder as she touched him and, taking her face
between his hands, he turned it till the ghostly moonlight fell full upon her.
There he held her in silence, letting the eerie magic of the place take effect;
the despairing sigh of wind in long grass, its pluck at her damp skirts, its
clammy touch on her cheeks.
A chill rose from the cold flags of
the porch. The thicket rustled with sinister sounds. Far away a dog lifted its
voice to bay at the ghastly moon. On every leaf and blade a dewy eye blinked
malevolently. He waited, face and hands cold as stone, eyes grim steel. On his
jaw the pale scar curved snake-like as a devil-mark. Suddenly an owl rose,
flapping and shrieking from an ivied tree. For the first time, Caroline
started.
“Well, my little fool,” Nick said
coldly, “have you had enough of this nonsense? Isn’t it time we went indoors?”
“Yes,” she answered firmly, “I want to
see William's coffin.”
“How perverse to twist my words. Since you persist, let us go in; but,
first, you must wait here till I fetch the key and a lantern.”
He strode off, expecting to hear her
follow. Then he would pick her up and carry her back to the house and the
warmth of the fire. In the warmth of the bed he would reduce her to submission
if not passion. Out of earshot, he slowed down, listening for the frightened
footsteps or the sound of her cry.
There were no light steps, no
frightened cry, neither on his going nor on his return. As he retraced his steps,
there was no sound except the mutterings of the night. Perhaps he had delayed
too long. Perhaps she had fainted. So be it; he could carry her away and forbid
her ever to make childish requests again.
Caroline stood where he had left her.
She showed no sign of alarm nor of the hope she still
cherished that he would vindicate himself. The chapel was cold as a
deserted tomb. Its heavily carved furnishings stood immobile as tombstones. On
the pew ends, strange effigies writhed as though startled by the sudden light.
On the walls brassy-faced memorials gleamed murkily. High in the rafters a bat
stirred and scrabbled. They stood in silence till the steady light restored the
trance. The place was dead, a place for burials. She had a momentary vision of
all the dead sitting, transfixed in serried rows, their deaf ears echoing with
too-late fulsome tributes. A titter of ghostly laughter stirred in her mind.
She shuddered.
“Come now,” Nick said firmly, “this is
enough of melancholy. Let us leave the dead to rest in peace.”
“I have not seen the vault yet .....
William's coffin,” she answered quietly.
He did not offer to help her down the
dusty stair, nor had she need of help. The faint beams
of the lantern revealed a vaulted chamber with a flagged floor. Around the
rough walls ran a series of heavily planked shelves on which reposed the
coffins of ancestry and kin. Time had played havoc with the older coffins, some
of which bulged and cracked at the seams; at any moment a skeletal arm or a
shrivelled foot might force its way free. In the flickering light embossed
silver handles and ostentatious nameplates winked and leered. Wisps of cobweb
hung like shroud-rags. Spiders watched from ancient many-faceted eyes.
“This is my mother's coffin,” Nick said,
indicating a handsome, incongruously shining box with yet untarnished
mountings. The adjacent space was vacant; Lady Ballinmore
lay waiting for her unloved lord. They moved on to a
smaller coffin resting alone. Caroline bent to read the inscription.
“Well, are you satisfied now?” Nick
asked, holding the lantern close.
“Not entirely,” she replied, facing
him, “I want you to lay your hand on this coffin and swear that, as far as you
know, these are the bones of your brother.”
He turned on her a look of
consternation and anger.
“Is there no end to your perversity?”
he demanded. “How often and in how many macabre circumstances, must I tell you
the truth before you believe me? How many such inquisitions must I undergo?”
“But this one, Nick. Do as I ask. I shall not leave here
till you do.”
He raised his hand as though he would
strike her. She did not flinch, but faced him like a mythical queen waiting to
be obeyed. He made a last struggle.
“You know I could lock you up in this
vault till you come to your senses ..... or till
.....”
“I die?” she responded, and stood
waiting till he could neither bear nor face her cold eyes any longer. With a
shrug, he laid his hand on the coffin and repeated the words of the oath. They
echoed hollowly around the chamber.
“You have sworn on the coffin of your
elder brother. If you lied, his spectre will haunt you till the day you die.”
He turned away abruptly and hurried up
the stair and out into the purer air. Caroline was by his side almost at once.
Like a moon-goddess she sailed past him. In the moonlight her shadow fell
across his path. She turned, her face in shadow.
“You have sworn,” she said softly,
“that your brother lies in the vault below. Tell me then, who is the prisoner
in the tower?”
“Ninny's bastard ..... and mad as he is.”
“Not mad, Nick, but crippled. I have
seen him. I have spoken to him.”
“That iniquitous hag! She let you in. You had no right to
enter the tower. Didn't I forbid it? That wretched creature shall suffer for
her mischief, make no mistake. She should have been locked in bedlam long
since. My father was a fool to trust her to behave .....
keep out of sight.”
“Poor Ninny is blameless. I found your
mother's key. If she could enter, why not I? Why did
she want to?”
“She did it out of charity. It gave
her some gruesome satisfaction to minister to the maimed and mad. But for her
care, he would have died. It would have been better so.”
“Why hold him captive?”
“He is no captive. He is free to go.”
“Climb down the slippery stair? He is
a cripple. Why not let him go ..... let
both of them go. Some charitable institution would receive them.”
“They would be worse off in bedlam.
Cannot you see they are both demented?”
“Distraught, not demented. He pines
for green fields and the warmth of the sun. Why must he remain hidden like an
evil deed? Even the servants do not speak of him.”
“Your tale-bearer is correct. They do
not speak of him. They fear the mad.”
“I do not believe he is mad. He talked
sensibly.”
“Raved of an exchange ..... of injustice?”
“Told his tale.”
“And you, little fool, believed him.
You have a tender heart, but you must not let your sympathy cloud your
judgement. It will not help him. His condition has no cure. You must not let it
distress you. Come in and let us banish these morbid imaginings with a bowl of
punch. Tomorrow, in the light of day, you will see clearly. I will take you to
the tower myself.”
“Now, Nick. I cannot rest ..... or love you truly ..... till I am convinced. Oh Nick, cannot you see I want to believe
you. I want no shadows between us.”
“Very well,” he said, “come.”