Gwennie knew a great deal. She was not one of those people—like so many—who are completely absorbed in themselves; she could not resist probing the lives of other people; she liked to discover their secrets, and the more they tried to hide them the more eager was she to know. It was, in a way, the driving force of her life. She knew about my broken love affair, the marriage of my one-time lover with my sister. Such matters were of the utmost interest to her.
I often thought of those servants who watched our actions. Their endeavours were mild compared with those of Gwennie. She was an unusual woman.
Then there was Paul. He was finding it more and more difficult to veil his feelings.
I wondered why he was so indifferent to his son. One day, on a rare occasion when I was alone with him, I asked him. We were in the hall and I had just come in. It was dusk and a blazing fire in the great fireplace threw flickering shadows over the gilded family tree. He said: "Every time I look at him, I think of her."
"It's unfair."
"I know. Life is unfair. I can't help it. I'm ashamed it ever happened. I don't want her and I don't want the child."
"All you wanted was what she could bring you." It was the familiar theme. I had harped on it so many times before. I said: "I'm sorry, but it is cruel to a little child who is in no way to blame for what his parents are."
"You're right," he said. "If only you were here . . . how much happier we should all be."
He meant if only I were the mistress of this house and mother of his children. It could not be. The house itself prevented that. Time and weather had taken its toll and the house had cried out for the Arkwright fortune—and so the present situation had been created.
"I must go," I said. "I see that. Soon I must go."
"It has been wonderful to have you here," Paul told me. "Even in these circumstances."
I only repeated that I must go.
I often wondered of how much Cousin Mary was aware as she lay in her bed. She slept for the greater part of the time, but when she was awake I contrived to sit by her bed.
"I shan't be like this forever," she said to me.
"No, Cousin Mary," I replied. But I wondered.
We seemed to be settling into a routine. I walked a little in the gardens. Paul used to watch for me, I believe, for he often came out to join me. We would walk among the flower-beds.
He said: "What is going to be the end of all this?"
"I don't know. I can't see into the future."
"Sometimes we can make the future."
"What could we do?"
"Find some means . . ."
"I used to think I should go away . . . but now I know I must stay with Cousin Mary as long as she needs me."
"You must never go away from me."
I said: "There is nothing we can do."
"There is always a way," he said.
"If only one could find it."
"We could find it together."
Once I thought I saw Gwennie at a window watching us and later that day when I passed through the gallery she was there. She was standing beside one of the pictures. It was a Landower ancestor who bore a resemblance to Paul.
"Interesting, these pictures," she said. "Fancy them being painted all those years ago. Clever, these painters. They bring out the character. I reckon some of them got up to something in their time."
I did not answer but gazed at the picture.
A look of cupidity came into her eyes. She said: "I'd like to find out. I reckon there'd be some tales. But most of them are dead and gone ... I'd rather know what goes on among the living. I reckon there'd be some revealing, don't you?"
I said coolly: "I daresay you have some records of what happened in the family."
"Oh, it's not the dead ones I'm so interested in."
There was a gleam in her eyes now. What was she hinting? I had heard that she was insatiably curious about the affairs of her servants. How much more so would she be concerning her own husband!
I must get away from Landower.
Cousin Mary seemed to sense my feeling.
"I want to go back," she said.
"I know," I answered. "I'll speak to the doctor."
"I'll speak to him now," said Cousin Mary.
She did, and as a result he had a conference with Paul and me.
"I think she had better be moved," said the doctor. "It's a bit tricky, but she is fretting for her home and I think she should be at peace with herself."
Paul protested. He wanted us to remain in the house. He insisted that it would be highly dangerous to move her.
The doctor however said: "There is nothing to be done for her. We can at least give her peace of mind. That will be best for her."
So it was arranged.
They put her on a stretcher which seemed to be the best way of carrying her and they took her back to Tressidor.
Cousin's Mary's condition improved a little. She could not move from her bed but she was becoming more like her lively self. Whatever had happened to her body had not impaired her brain.
I was constantly with her. The days were taken up with work and I was glad of this because I did not want time to think of the future. I knew she would never walk again and I wondered what effect that would have eventually even on her spirits. In spite of myself I was getting more and more involved with Paul. He called often to ask after Cousin Mary and he always contrived to be alone with me.
I was glad to see Jago. He supplied the right sort of balm which I needed. He could never be morbid and it was good to be able to laugh now and then.
When I asked him about the machinery he said: "It's all in the melting pot. But I have my hopes. You'll hear in due course."
I didn't believe him, but before long he was away again, looking mysterious, and even more pleased with himself than he usually was.
Spring had come. Olivia wrote often and I still detected a note of something like wistfulness in what she wrote, and occasionally I fancied I caught a whiff of fear. If I could have left Cousin Mary, I should have gone to her.
April was a lovely month, I always thought—particularly in Lancarron. There was a great deal of rain, showers which would be followed by brilliant sunshine, and I liked to walk in the gardens after the rain had stopped. I rode often and sometimes walked. I went past fields of corn where the speedwells grew a vivid blue and in the lanes where the horse-chestnuts were in flower. Another year had gone. It was nearly six since that Jubilee which had been so fateful for me. I was now twenty. Most young women were married at my age.
It was a thought which must have occurred to Cousin Mary for as I sat by her bed she said: "I should like to see you married, Caroline."
"Oh, Cousin Mary. I thought you extolled the joys of single blessedness."
"It can be blessed of course, but it is, I suppose, an alternative."
"You're weakening. You really think marriage is the ideal state?"
"I suppose I do."
"For example, take my mother and your cousin. Think of Paul and Gwennie Landower . . . and perhaps my sister Olivia and Jeremy. What an ideal state they have worked themselves into!"
"They're exceptions."
"Are they? They are the people I know best."
"It does work sometimes. It would . . . with sensible people."
"You think I would be sensible."
"Yes, I think you would."
"I'm not sure of that at all. I nearly married Jeremy Brandon, being completely deluded into thinking I was what he wanted. It never occurred to me that I was an investment. What a lucky escape! And that was entirely due to my good fortune rather than any good sense I possessed."
"You wouldn't make the same mistake again."
"People are notoriously foolish in these matters."
"I wish things could have been different here."
"What do you mean? You have done so much for me."
"Nonsense! I've had you here because I wanted you to be here. Look at me now ... a burden to you."
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"Don't dare say such a thing! It is ridiculous and quite untrue."
"Just at the moment perhaps you feel like that. But how long am I going on like this, eh? You don't know. It could be for years. I don't want to tie you to an invalid."
"I am here because I want to be here."
"I wish the right man would come along."
"I wouldn't have believed that of you, Cousin Mary. Are you still thinking of shining knights on chargers? I'm happy here. I love the work I am doing. I feel . . . useful. You've done everything for me, Cousin Mary. Now no more of this talk, please."
"All right," she said. "But I really do think you would have made a success of marriage."
"It takes two."
"It should be easy enough. Two people make up their minds that it is going to work, then it couldn't fail. People are too absorbed in their own wants—that's it."
"People are human."
"I like the Landowers," she went on. "It's funny ... the rivalry between the families. Still there, perhaps. It's a pity we didn't have our Romeo and Juliet ... but with a happy ending, of course. I like Jago."
"Everybody likes Jago."
"He could be tamed."
I laughed. "You talk as though he is some wild beast."
"I thought he might have some fine feelings under all that froth."
"He'd never change."
"I think some woman might change him . . . make him serious . . . make him settle down." She looked at me wistfully.
"Dear Cousin Mary," I said, "I'm no Juliet and he's no Romeo. It's quite incongruous."
"I daresay you are right."
When I left her that night she seemed much as usual.
Next morning when I was getting up there was a knock on my door. It was one of the maids. She was white-faced and trembling.
"Miss Caroline," she said, "I went in to wake Miss Tressidor with her tea and ..."
"What? What?" I cried.
"I think something's wrong."
I hurried along to Cousin Mary's room. She was lying back on her pillows, white and still. I went to her and touched her cheek. It was cold.
A terrible desolation swept over me. Cousin Mary had died in the night.
As soon as the doctor came I took him to her room. He shook his head.
"She's been dead some hours," he said.
"She was as usual last night."
He nodded. "But it was inevitable," he said, "and she would not have wished to go on as she was."
"But I thought she was going to get better."
"She was too badly injured for that. It was her spirit that kept her alive, her determination to set her house in order. I guessed that. It couldn't have lasted. You have made her final weeks happy, Miss Tressidor. There was nothing else that could have been done."
I felt stupefied. I was going about in a dream.
I could not bear to think of Tressidor without her. I could not believe that I should never see her again.
I had to rouse myself from my stupor. There was a great deal to be done, the funeral arrangements to be made, people to be notified.
The day after Cousin Mary's death, her lawyer came to see me; he expressed his deep concern and he said he hoped I would regard him as my friend, as Miss Tressidor had done.
"I have a letter which she left with me and which was to be delivered to you on her death. She wrote it after the accident and it is in my keeping. It will explain the will, I think, but she wanted you to be prepared and to tell you in her own words."
I took the letter. I knew she had done a certain amount of writing in bed and that some of these communications had been to her solicitor. She must have known that she could not live long. She was fully aware of how badly damaged she was. She had often said that she was lucky that her injuries caused her the minimum of pain, but she knew that what had been done to her body had rendered part of it insensitive.
I took the letter to my room, for I knew that reading it would be an emotional experience—and indeed it was.
"My Dear Caroline," she had written,
"When you read this I shall be dead. The last thing I want you to do is grieve for me. I'm better off like this. You don't think I could have endured months . . . perhaps years . . . incapacitated as I was. It wouldn't have been in my nature. I should have been a horrible, crotchetty old woman—ungrateful, irritable, biting the hand that fed me ... which would have been yours, for you my dear, are the one who has brought the most joy into my life. Yes, from the moment you came, I took to you.
"Well, now I'm going and what I want more than anything is to make sure that you are all right ... as far as I can make you, I mean ... for mostly it depends on yourself.
"You have worked for Tressidor and you have a good knowledge of the estate. So I am leaving you Tressidor . . . lock, stock and barrel, as they say. It's all drawn up legally. I daresay Imogen might try to put her spoke in, but I've dealt with that. She'll say she's the nearest blood relation and the place is hers by right. Can you see her here? What would she do with it? Bring it to ruin in next to no time ... or rather sell it. That's what it would mean to her ... hard cash. No, that's not to be. Tressidor is mine and I say it is going to be yours.
"I know we found out that there was no blood tie between us, but you're like me, Caroline. You're strong. You care about the place. You're a Tressidor by adoption. Blood's thicker than water, they say. It's true about blood and water but that doesn't mean it's true about people. You're closer to me than any of the family have been.
"Well, there it is, Tressidor will be yours. You know something about the management and you'll learn more. When they read my will you'll see how it's worked out. Jim Burrows is to be looked after if he stays to help you. He's a good worker and loyal, I know. You'll do well. I'll prophesy the estate will prosper under you. You've got the touch.
"I know you've always been uneasy about what you should do with your life and thought about getting posts and so on. Well, there's no need. You'll be mistress of Tressidor.
"The lawyers will explain everything. They'll help you when you need help. With them and the bank and Jim Burrows you can't go wrong. You'll find everything in order. Tressidor is yours and everything you need to keep it in the state in which it comes to you.
"Now a word about you. I know it was a terrible shock when that silly young man turned from you. I think it did something to you. It embittered you. That was natural. Then I believe there might have been happiness for you in another direction . . . and that's a blind alley. Sometimes I fancy there is a little canker in your heart, Caroline, a seed of bitterness which gives you a jaundiced view of some aspects of life. If I say to you, Cut it out, you might say you cannot. I know it is hard, but you won't be completely happy until you are free of it. Take what comes to you, Caroline, and be grateful for it. Sometimes life is a compromise. It was with me. I made the best of what I had and on the whole it was a good life.
"We have talked of marriage now and then. I should have liked to see you a happy wife and the mother of children. I suppose that would be reckoned the ideal state. You need a very special sort of man. One, if I may say so, who will direct you to a certain extent and to do that he will have to be very wise and strong as well. He will have to be someone you can respect. Remember that, dear Caroline.
"Now I have finished sermonizing.
"Goodbye, my child. That is how I think of you . . . the daughter I never had. If I had had one I should have liked her to be exactly like you.
"I thought you should be prepared for all this when they read the will. It might have been a shock to you.
"There is one other thing I have to say to you and that is, don't grieve for me. Remember this is the best thing that could have happened since poor old Caesar tripped over that tree trunk. I couldn't have gone on like that. Much better for me to go while I could do so with some dignity and a certain self respect.
"Thank you for being to me what you have. Try to be happy. I'm not much given to poetr
y as you know but there is something I came across the other day. Shakespeare, I think—and it expressed more beautifully, more poignantly than I could have believed possible all that I want to say to you about my passing. This is it:
" 'No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell
Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe.'
"Your Cousin Mary."
I was in a daze of misery. I knew I should have been prepared for Cousin Mary's death but it was a bewildering shock. I was grateful that there was so much to do and the weight of my new responsibilities in some measure helped me through the days.
The dismal tolling of the bell on the day they laid her in her grave seemed to go on and on in my head; and what it signified filled me with utter despair. I missed her in so many ways. I wanted to talk to her of things which happened. Sometimes it was hard to believe that I should never see her again. I went over little incidents in my mind from the first day when I had arrived from London with Miss Bell and remembered in what awe I had held Cousin Mary until I had understood those human qualities and the friendliness which had reached out to a lonely child.
I did not weep for Cousin Mary. Sometimes I thought my grief went too deep for tears. I went through it all as though in a hideous nightmare; the falling of clods on the coffin, the mourners round the grave, the return to the house and the solemn reading of the will, the new way in which people now regarded me.
I was Mistress of Tressidor—but there was little joy in that.
That would come. It was almost as though Cousin Mary was commanding me. I kept saying over and over to myself the lines she had quoted. She meant that. I must try to stop grieving. I must give my attention to what really mattered. It was her life and she was passing it on to me.
Jim Burrows came to see me and very movingly pledged himself to support me and to work for me in the whole-hearted manner in which he had worked for Cousin Mary.