Patrick White - The Fringe of Leaves

Were he determined not to let her forget, she might have assured him how unnecessary it was to take such precautions; she did not think she would ever shed her loathing for either of them.

Merle needed no guidance: she ambled sweetly down the track, then the road; her gait, the set of her ears, seemed to condone the more uncontrollable passions; provided these are quite spent, there is no call for remorse.

But her rider was all remorse. She hated the shaggy, inscrutable mountain, the lush pastures with their self-engrossed flocks and herds, the name ‘Dulcet’, whatever had taken part in rousing inclinations she should never have allowed access to her consciousness.

On the flat road within sight of the house she might have given way to a dry rage, had it not turned to panic, for what she could not yet conceive.

Her rider’s distress must have communicated itself to the mare; without pressure of any kind, she broke into a timid canter which carried them the short distance to the yard.

Mrs Brennan had come outside and was pacing with long, uncharacteristic steps, frowning at the sky as though expecting a storm or a revelation, then into the immediate distance, from which, hopefully, a human rescuer might emerge.

On seeing Mrs Roxburgh she looked terrified and cried, ‘Oh dear, what is it?’ which were Mrs Roxburgh’s own simultaneous words.

To extricate them from the impasse of a silence, the latter added, ‘Is it my husband?’

‘Oh, ma’am, yes!’ It was all waiting for release and would now come tumbling out. ‘Mr Roxburgh has taken a turn. But says you is not to worry when you come. Tim is ridden to town for Dr Aspinall. But we cannot expect them in quite a while — as you know. And must not worry, Mr Roxburgh was definite I should tell you.’

Dismounting at the block, his wife asked, ‘Surely you haven’t left him alone?’

The woman wrapped her hands in her apron. ‘The girl is with him, while I come out ’ere to watch for you — and get meself a mouthful of air. My nerves will not stand a sickroom for any length of time.’

Mrs Roxburgh was forgetting to hobble, when the pain in her ankle returned.

‘Ah, what ’as happened to yer, ma’am?’ the housekeeper moaned.

‘It is nothing. I twisted my ankle,’ Mrs Roxburgh explained, and made as quick and as natural as she could across the yard and into the house.

The horse she had abandoned trailed her reins into the stables, whinnying and nosing for oats, whereupon the other occupants set up a commotion and almost kicked the shed to pieces.

Mrs Roxburgh swept on, and into the sickroom, with a show of authority and concern which impressed Holly, and was none the less genuine. Words of love and compassion had risen to the level at which they must overflow, if self-hatred did not dry them up.

At least her physical disability forced her to her knees at the bedside, where she soon had possession of the hand which remained a source of amazement: that it had been given to her to hold against her cheek such a parcel of fine bones and thinly veiled, meandering veins.

‘It has passed, Ellen, and I feel very comfortable. From experience, we should have nothing more to fear — until next time, that is. Dr Aspinall will give us his opinion when he comes.’

‘If only I had been with you!’ Tears gushed out over the hand she was pressing.

‘You went riding. Well, I expect it has done you good. We all need our diversions, according to our different tempers.’

The girl had left them on the mistress’s arrival. Austin Roxburgh was lying raised against the pillows. The habitually tense or querulous lines in his face were relaxed in an imitation of serenity; his cheeks even made a show of colour. Had it not been for signs of fatigue he would have looked the picture of normal health.

Only when she withdrew her hand he began to look anxious, and complained, ‘Why must you leave me, Ellen?’

‘To change from my habit.’

Accepting the tiresome reason, he said, ‘I look forward to the long, uninterrupted evening we shall spend together.’

It seemed as though his release from pain, and no doubt fear, had made him determined to invest their marriage of years with the tender glow of courtship.

She turned to disguise her unhappiness, if not her limp.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ Mr Roxburgh was quick to ask.

‘My horse shied at a hedgehog. I twisted my ankle in falling.’

‘Ah!’ His breath was sharp, but he made no further comment beyond, ‘Otherwise you are whole, I take it.’

She was relieved for the refuge of the dressing-room, and to change into a loose gown which declared her intention of not leaving their quarters that evening.

Mrs Roxburgh sat at the bedside, while her husband made dis-jointed conversation, or dozed, and she nursed her numbness, or provided such answers as would satisfy him. For the first time in her life she had reached that point where the guilt-ridden wish the past completely razed in consequence of a single lapse, so that they may start afresh somewhere in the mists of abstract, and possibly unattainable, bliss.

On Mr Roxburgh’s announcing that he felt like taking a little soup provided there was nothing fat in it, Mrs Brennan brought him a plateful. The master presented his compliments, she said, and would pay his brother a visit after everyone had dined. ‘I have laid a place in the dining-room, ma’am, if you care to prepare yourself for dinner.’

Mrs Roxburgh confessed she had no appetite, and did not wish to leave her husband, but in the end was persuaded to toy with a breast of chicken on a tray. It would have suited her if she too, might have claimed to be an invalid, but could only enlist her insufficiently injured ankle.

When Garnet Roxburgh knocked on the door he must have heard the things rattle on the tray as she made her escape into the dressing-room beyond. Of the conversation between the brothers she heard not a word, what with the closed door and her deaf ears, but was attracted repeatedly to her own reflections in the looking-glass.

The long wait for Dr Aspinall after Garnet withdrew might have become intolerable had the invalid not been inspired by fits of unexpected gaiety.

When she had read to him awhile from Sir Thomas Browne, he stopped her by saying, ‘An admirably modulated voice, Ellen. Who would have thought that a crude Cornish girl could be made over to become a beautiful and accomplished woman!’

Mrs Roxburgh was embarrassed more by the compliment than the slight. ‘Crude I may have been, accomplished I am not.’

‘When I used the word “crude” I did not mean to disparage you, my dear. It was to your advantage. The crude lends itself all the better to moulding.’ He was caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘In a woman, at any rate. I do not think it applies to a man. Men are too rigid. There is more of wax in a woman. She is easily impressed!’ He pinched her cheek, laughing for his own wit, and might have drawn her to him had they not heard voices approaching.

It was Dr Aspinall at last, bleary from the long drive and an aftermath of brandy supped before leaving, and perhaps also en route. After hearing details of Mr Roxburgh’s attack and making a fairly disinterested examination, the doctor prescribed tincture of digitalis, which he had with him in his bag, and predicted that the patient had years of life ahead of him. Dr Aspinall was of that school of physicians which believes in making the patient happy by encouraging him to ignore his ailment and save his strength for payment of the fee.

Business concluded, the doctor accepted a further brandy and water (at which Mr Roxburgh joined him) and complimented Mrs Roxburgh on her looks.

‘My wife, by the by, sends you her affectionate remembrances and continues hoping you will pay her the promised visit.’