Someone had called my name.
I got out of bed and lighted one of the candles. I went to the window which I had opened wide at the bottom before going to bed. It was believed that the night air was dangerous and that windows should be tightly closed while one slept; but I had been so eager to take in that fresh moorland air that I had defied the old custom. I leaned out and glanced dowr at the window immediately below. It was still, as it had always been, that of my father's room.
I felt sobered because I knew what I had heard this night, and on that other night of my childhood, was my father's voice calling out in his sleep. And he called for Cathy.
My mother had been Catherine too. I remembered her vaguely--not as a person but a presence. Or did I imagine it?
I. seemed to remember being held tightly in her arms, so tightly that I cried out because I could not breathe. Then it was over, and I had a strange feeling that I never saw her again, that no one else ever cuddled me because when my mother did so I had cried out in protest.
Was that the reason for my father's sadness? Did he, after all those years, still dream of the dead? Perhaps there was something about me which reminded him or her; that would be natural enough and was almost certainly the case. Perhaps my homecoming had revived old memories, old griefs which would have been best forgotten.
How long were the days; how silent the house 1 Ours was a household of old people, people whose lives belonged to the past. I felt the old rebellion stirring. / did not belong to this house.
I saw my father at meals; after that he retired into his study to write the book which would never be completed. Fanny went about the house giving orders with hands and eyes; she was a woman of few words but a click of her tongue, a puff of her lips, could be eloquent. The servants were in fear of her: she had the power to dismiss them; I knew that she held over them the threat of encroaching age to remind them that if she turned them out, there would be few ready to employ them.
There was never a spot of dust on the furniture; the kitchen was twice weekly filled with the fragrant smell of baking bread; the household was run smoothly. I almost longed for chaos.
I missed my school life which, in comparison with that in my father's house, seemed to have been filled with exciting adventures. I thought of the room I had shared with Dilys Heston-Browne; the courtyard below from which came the continual sound of girls' voices; the periodic ringing of bells which made one feel part of a lively community; the secrets, the laughter shared; the dramas and comedies of a way of life which in retrospect appeared desirably lighthearted.
There had been several occasions during those four years when I had been taken on holiday trips by people who pitied my loneliness. Once I went to Geneva with Dilys and her family, and at another time to Cannes. It was not the beauties of the Lake which I remembered, nor that bluest of seas with the background of Maritime Alps; it was the close family feeling between Dilys and her parents, which she took for granted and which filled me with envy.
Yet, looking back, I realised that it was only now and then that the feeling of loneliness had come to me; for the most part I walked, rode, bathed and played games with Dilys and her sister as though I were a member of the family.
During one holiday when every other pupil had gone away. I was taken to Paris for a week by one of the mistresses. Very different this, from holidaying with the light-hearted Dilys and her indulgent family, for Mademoiselle Dupont was determined that my cultural education should not be neglected. I laughed now to think of that breathless week; the hours spent in the Louvre among the old masters; the trip out to Versailles for a history lesson. Mademoiselle had decided that not a moment was to be wasted. But what I remembered most vividly from that holiday was hearing her talk of me to her mother; I was "the poor little one who was left at school 13 during the holidays because there was nowhere else for her to go."
I was sad when I heard that said of me and deeply conscious of that desperate aloneness. The unwanted one! The one who had no mother and whose father did not want her to come home for the holiday. Yet I forgot quickly, as one does when a child, and was soon lost in the enchantment of the Latin Quarter, the magic of the Champs Elysees and the shop windows of the Rue de la Paix.
It was a letter from Dilys which made me recall those days with nostalgia. Life was wonderful for Dilys, being prepared for the London season.
" My dear Catherine, I have scarcely a moment. I've been meaning to write for ages, but there's always something to prevent me. I seem to be for ever at the dressmakers being fitted for this and that. You should see some of the dresses! Madam would scream her dismay. But Mother's determined that I shan't go unnoticed. She's making out lists of people who are to be asked to my first ball. Already, mind you! How I wish you could be here. Do tell me your news...."
I could imagine Dilys and her family in their house in Knightsbridge close to the Park with the mews at the back. How different her life must be from mine!
I tried to write to her, but there seemed nothing to say that was not grim and melancholy. How could Dilys under stand what it was like to have no mother to make plans for one's future, and a father who was so preoccupied with his own affairs that he did not even know I was there.
So I abandoned my letter to Dilys.
As the days passed I was finding the house more and more intolerable and spent a good deal of time out of doors, riding every day. Fanny smirked at my riding-habit the latest from Paris by the bounty of Uncle Dick but I did not care.
One day Fanny said to me: " Your father's going off to-day." Her face was tightly shut, completely without expression, and I knew she had deliberately made it so. I could not tell whether she disapproved of my father's going away or not; all I knew was that she was holding in some secret which I was not allowed to share.
Then I remembered that there had always been those times when he went away and did not come home until the next day; and when he did come back we still did not see him because he shut himself away in his room and trays were 14 taken up to him. When he emerged he looked ravaged and was more silent than ever.
" I remember," I said to Fanny. " So he still goes ... away?"
" Regular," Fanny answered. " Once in t'month."
"Fanny," I asked earnestly, "where does he go?"
Fanny shrugged her shoulders as though to imply that it was no business of hers nor of mine; but I believe she knew.
I kept thinking about him all day, and wondering. Then it suddenly came to me. My father was not very old . perhaps forty, I was not sure. Women might still mean some thing to him although he had never married again. I thought I was worldly-wise. I had discussed life with my school friends, many of whom were French always so much more knowledgeable in such matters than we English and we thought ourselves very up-to-date. I decided that my father had a mistress whom he visited regularly but whom he would never marry because he could not replace my mother; and after visiting this woman he came back filled with remorse because, although she was long since dead, he still loved my mother and believed he had desecrated her memory.
He returned the following evening; the pattern was the same as I remembered it. I did not see him on his return; I only knew that he was in his room, that he did not appear for meals, and that trays were taken up to him.
When at length he did appear he looked so desolate that I longed to comfort him.
At dinner that evening I said to him: " Father, you are not ill, are you?"
"111?" His brows were drawn together in dismay. Why should you think that? "
" Because you look so pale and tired and as though you have something on your mind. I wondered if there's anything I can do to help. I'm not a child any more, you know."
" I'm not ill," he said, without looking at me.
"Then ..."
I saw the expression of impatience cross his face, and hesitated. But I decided not to be thrust aside so easily. He was in need of comfort and it was the duty of his daughter to try to give it to him.<
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" Look here. Father," I said boldly, " I feel something is wrong. I might be able to help."
He looked at me then and the impatience had given way 15 to coolness.
I knew that he had deliberately put up a barrier between us and that he resented my persistence and construed it as inquisitiveness.
" My dear child," he murmured, " you are too imaginative."
He picked up his knife and fork and began paying more attention to his food than he had before I had spoken. I understood. It was a curt dismissal.
I had rarely felt so alone as I did at that moment.
After that our conversation became even more stilted, and often when I addressed him he did not answer. They said in the house that he was suffering from one of his " bad turns."
Dilly wrote again, complaining that I never told her what was happening to me. Reading her letters was like listening to her talking; the short sentences, the underlining, the exclamation marks, gave the impression of breathless excitement. She was learning to curtsy; she was taking dancing lessons; the great day was approaching.
It was wonderful to have escaped from Madame and feel oneself no longer a schoolgirl, but a young lady of fashion.
I tried again to write to her, but what could I say? Only this: I'm desperately lonely. This house is a melancholy one. Oh, Dilys, you congratulate yourself because you have left your schooldays behind, and I am here in this sad house, wishing I were at school again.
I tore up that letter and went out to the stables to saddle my mare, Wanda, whom I had taken for my own on my return. I felt as though I were trapped in the web of my childhood, and that my life was going on in the same dismal way for ever.
And the day arrived when Gabriel Rockwell and Friday came into my life.
I had ridden out on to the moors that day as usual and had galloped over the peaty ground to the rough road when I saw the woman and the dog; it was the pitiful condition of the latter which made me slacken my speed. He was a thin pathetic-lo king creature, and about his neck was a rope which acted as a lead. I had always had a special feeling for animals, and the sight of any one of them in distress never failed to rouse my sympathy. The woman, I saw, was a gipsy; this did not surprise me for there were many wandering from encampment to encampment on the moors ; they came to the house selling clothes-pegs and baskets or offering us heather which we could have picked for ourselves. Fanny had no 36 patience with them. " They'll get nowt from me," she would say. " They're nob but lazy good-for-nothings, the lot of 'em."
I pulled up beside the woman and said: "Why don't you carry him? He's too weak to walk."
"And what's that to you?" she demanded, and I was aware of her sharp beady eyes beneath a tangle of greying black hair. Then her expression changed; she had noticed my smart riding-habit, my well-cared-for horse, and I saw the cupidity leap into her eyes. I was gentry, and gentry were for fleecing. " It's not a bite that's passed me lips, lady, this day and last. And that's the gospel truth, without the word of a lie."
She did not, however, look as though she were starving, but the dog undoubtedly was. He was a little mongrel, with a touch of the terrier, and in spite of his sad condition his eyes were alert; the manner in which he looked at me touched me deeply because I fancied that he was imploring me to rescue him. I was drawn to him in those first moments and I knew that I could not abandon him.
" It's the dog who looks hungry," I commented.
" Lord love you, lady, I haven't had a bite I could share with him these last two days."
" The rope's hurting him," I pointed out. " Can't you see that?"
" It's the only way I can get him along. I'd carry him, if I had the strength. With a little food in me I'd get back me strength."
I said on impulse: "I'll buy the dog. I'll give you a shilling for him."
" A shilling! Why, lady, I couldn't bear to part with him. My little friend, that's what he's been." She stooped to the dog, and the way in which he cowered betrayed the true state of affairs, so that I was doubly determined to get him.
"Times is hard, ain't they, little 'un?" she went on.
"But we've been together too long now for us to be parted for ... a shilling."
I felt in my pockets for money. I knew she would finally accept a shilling for him because she would have to sell a great many clothes-pegs to earn as much; but, being a gipsy, she was going to bargain first. Then to my dismay I discovered that I had come out without money. In the pocket of my habit was one of Fanny's patties, stuffed with meat and onions, which I had brought with me in case I should not return for luncheon; but it was hardly likely that the gipsy
17 would exchange the dog for that. It was money she wanted; and her eyes had already begun to glisten at the thought of it.
She was watching me intently; so was the dog. Her eyes had grown crafty and suspicious, and the dog's were more appealing than ever.
I began: " Look here, I've come out without money ..."
But even as I spoke her lips curled in disbelief. She gave a vicious jerk at the rope round the dog's neck and he gave a piteous yelp. "
Quiet!" she snapped; and he cowered again, with his eyes on me.
I wondered whether I could ask the woman to wait at this spot while I rode home to get the money, or whether she would allow me to take the dog and she could call at Glen House for it. I knew that was useless, for she would not trust me any more than I would trust her.
And it was then, as if by chance, that Gabriel appeared. He was galloping across the moor towards the road, and at the sound of a horse's hoofs the woman and I turned to see who was coming. He was on a black horse which made him seem fairer than he actually was, but his fairness made an immediate impression; so did his elegance. His dark brown coat and breeches were of the finest material and cut; but as he came nearer it was his face which attracted my attention and made it possible for me to do what I did. Looking back afterwards it seemed a strange thing to do to stop a stranger and ask him to lend me a shilling to buy a dog. But there he was, I told him afterwards, like a knight in shining armour, a Perseus or St. George.
There was a brooding melancholy about his delicate features which immediately interested me, although' this was not so apparent on our first meeting as it was to become later.
I called to him as he came on to the road: " Stop a moment, please."
And even as I said it, I marvelled at my temerity.
" Is anything wrong?" he asked.
"Yes. This dog is starving."
He pulled up and looked from me to the dog and the gipsy woman, summing up the situation as he did so.
" Poor little fellow," he said. " He's in a bad way."
His voice was gentle, and I was immediately exhilarated because I knew that I should not ask for help in vain.
" I want to buy him," I explained, " and I've come out without money.
It's most annoying and distressing. Will you please lend me a shilling? "
" Look here," whined the woman. " 1 ain't selling him. Not for no shilling, I ain't. He's my little dog, he is. Why should I sell him?"
" You were ready to for a shilling," I retorted.
She shook her head and pulled the dog towards her; and I again felt that twinge of compassion as I saw the little animal's reluctance. I looked pleadingly at the young man, who smiled as he dismounted, put his hand in his pocket and said:
" Here's two shillings for the dog. You can take it or leave it."
The woman could not hide her delight at so large a sum. She held out a dirty hand for the money which, with a fastidious gesture, he dropped into her palm. Then he took the rope from her, and she moved away quickly as though she were afraid he would change his mind.
" Thank you," I cried. " Oh, thank you."
The dog made a little whimpering sound which I felt to be pleasure. "
The first thing to be done is feed him," I said, dismounting. "
Fortunately I have a meat patty in my pocket."
He nodde
d and, taking the reins from my hands, led our horses off the road while I picked up the dog, who made a feeble attempt to wag his tail. I sat down on the grass and took the patty from my pocket; I fed the dog, who ate ravenously while the young man stood by holding the horses.
" Poor little dog," he said. " He's had a bad time."
"I don't know how to begin to thank you," I told him.
"What would have happened if you hadn't come along is unthinkable. She would never have given him to me."
" Don't let's brood on that," he said. " We have him now."
I was drawn towards him because I knew that he cared as much about the dog's fate as I did; and the dog, from that moment, became a bond between us.
" I shall take him home and look after him," I said. " Do you think he'll recover?"
" I am sure he will. He's a tough little mongrel, I imagine, but hardly the dog to spend his days on a lady's velvet cushion."