Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“I did.”

“Then it must be true. For a fine young man like Mr. Prestcott could surely never lie. And he is a gentleman, while I am merely a soldier’s daughter.”

“Is it true? Is it?”

“Why do you ask me? You think it so. You have known me for what? Near four years now, and you believe it so.”

“How can I not? Your behavior is all of a piece. How can I trust you in your denial?”

“I have not denied anything,” she said. “I think it none of your affair.”

“I am your employer,” I said. “In the eyes of the law, your father, responsible for your behavior in all particulars. So tell me—who was that man I saw coming out of your house yesterday?”

She looked puzzled for a moment, then realized who I was referring to. “He was an Irishman, who came to see me. He traveled a long way.”

“Why?”

“That is not your affair either.”

“It is. It is my duty to myself as much as it is to you to prevent you from bringing shame on this family. What will people say if it becomes common currency that the Woods are employing a whore in their house?”

“Maybe they will say that the master, Mr. Anthony Wood, also lies with the slut whenever he can? That he takes her to Paradise Fields and there fornicates awhile before taking himself off to the library and making speeches about the behavior of others?”

“That is different.”

“Why?”

“I am not having an argument with you about abstract matters. This is serious. But if you can act thus with me, you can do so with others. That is obviously the case.”

“So how many other sluts do you know, Mr. Wood?”

I was red with anger at this time, and blamed her absolutely for what happened next. All I had desired was some sort of frank and open response. I would have liked her to deny everything, so that I might generously exonerate her. Or confess it frankly, and beg my forgiveness, which I would have willingly conferred. But she would do neither, and instead had the insolence to fling my accusations back in my face. Very swiftly, it seemed, we plunged into the darkness of our association, for whatever may have transpired between us, I was still her master. By her words she made it clear she had forgotten this, and was abusing our intimacy. No man of sense could admit there was any similarity between our behaviors, even had the accusation any substance, for she was beholden to me while I was free of any dependency to her. Nor could any man tolerate the foulness of her speech to me; even in the heat of passion I had never addressed her in anything but the most courteous terms and could not tolerate such language.

I stood up in shock and took a step toward her. She fell back against the wall, eyes wide with anger, and pointed at me, arm outstretched from her shoulder, in a strange, frightening gesture.

“Do not take a single step closer to me,” she hissed.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I do not know what I intended. Certainly I do not think there was any violence in my mind, for I have never been one to behave in such a way. Even the worst of servants has never received a blow from me, however much it was deserved. I do not claim this as any particular quality; and in the case of Sarah I know I would dearly loved to have beaten her black and blue, to revenge myself for the abuse I had suffered. But I am certain I would never have done more than try to frighten.

That fright, however, was enough for her to abandon all the show of docility. I did not know what she might have done had I taken a further step, but I felt then a tremendous will within her, and I did not feel able to challenge it.

“Get out of this house,” I said when she had lowered her arm. “You are dismissed. I will not lay a complaint against you, however much I have a right to do so. But I never want you in here again.”

Without another word, but with a glance of the purest contempt, she walked out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard the front door close.

Had I been Prestcott, I might have concluded from this encounter that Sarah was evil and possessed; certainly there was something powerful and terrifying in her gesture, and in the flame of her eyes at that moment. This is something I will dwell on properly at the right moment; for now, however, I must say merely that not only did such a thought never occur to me, I can refute absolutely Prestcott’s assertions.

It requires no great learning or knowledge to do so; even by his own account, Prestcott’s conclusions were wrong and he was let down by his own ignorance and derangement. For example, he says that demons took over the body of Sir William Compton and changed its shape, but this is plainly contradicted by all authority, for the Malleus Maleficarum says plain it is not possible; Aristotle says this can be caused only by natural causes, particularly the stars, yet Dionysius says the devil cannot change the stars—God will not allow it. Prest-cott never found any evidence of Sarah having cast an enchantment over his hair and blood, and the visions he suffered were due more, I think, to the devils he had himself summoned into his mind than any sent there by others.

Nor did he read those signs aright which he had himself summoned, for in the bowl of water shown him by Anne Blundy, he sought the author of his misfortunes, and she showed him truly—he saw, quite plainly, his own father and a young man—that man, I believe, was none other than himself. These two people brought all the troubles on their own heads through their violence and their disloyalty. Greatorex repeated the warning and again he ignored it. Jack Prestcott had the answer in his hand, Wallis says so plainly and I know it to be true, and yet in his madness he blamed others, and helped destroy Sarah, and put all hope forever out of his reach.

He very nearly put it out of mine as well. I scarcely saw Sarah at all for the next few months, as I took myself back to my manuscripts and my notebooks. When not working, though, my mind incessantly and disobediently returned to her, and my distress grew into resentment, and then into the most bitter hatred. I rejoiced when I heard that Dr. Grove had dismissed her, and that she was without work of any sort; I took satisfaction in the fact that no one else would employ her for fear of comment; and once I saw her in the street red in face with anger and humiliation, subjected to the lewd remarks of students who had also heard the stories. This time I did not intervene as I had once before, but turned away after I was certain she had seen me, so that she would know my contempt continued unabated. Quos laeserunt et oderunt, as Seneca has it, those you have injured you also hate, and I believe I felt already that I had been less than just, but did not know how to reverse my harshness.

Shortly after this business, when my spirits were still low and my habits continued unsociable—for I knew my humor did not appeal, and so avoided the company of my fellow men lest they demand to know what ailed me—I was summoned to Dr. Wallis. This was a rare occurrence, for although I was earning him his salary as keeper of the archives, he did not honor me frequently with such attention; any business between us was habitually conducted at chance meetings, in the street or in the library. As everyone who knows Wallis will realize, the summons alarmed me, for his coldness was truly terrifying. This is one of the rare matters on which Prestcott and Cola agree—both found his presence disturbing. It was, I think, the blankness of his countenance which gave such alarm, for it is hard to know a man when the visible indicators of character have been so rigorously suppressed. Wallis never smiled, never frowned, never showed either pleasure or displeasure. There was only his voice—soft, menacing and permanently laced with scarce-hidden nuances of contempt beneath a courtesy which could evaporate as swiftly as a summer dew.