Pearl Buck - Death in the Castle

“Sit down again,” he commanded. “I’m not going to let you off now that I’ve got you in my power. I’m simply eaten up with vulgar curiosity. Tell me—”

Hands on Webster’s shoulders, he pressed him into the big chair and then drew up a hassock whose yellow satin cover was almost in shreds.

“Tell me honestly, confidentially, fully — any way you like — who is Wells and who is Kate? I smell a secret — very dusty and moldy like everything else here in the castle. Perhaps it needs sun and air, too. … Come, don’t pretend with me, Webster! We’re not children, in spite of all this hocus-pocus!”

Webster shivered slightly. “It’s damp — very dangerous! My toes are curling up!” He pulled up his collar and thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.

“All right, Mr. Webster. Begin!” he said firmly.

Webster sneezed long and loudly, blew his nose, glanced at him and away again and had a fit of coughing before he could answer.

“Yes, well — let me see — in answer to your question — about Wells, wasn’t it? He’s quite what he looks, you know. He was a young footman here when Sir Richard was born, and gradually rose to be the butler. He married a farmer’s daughter named Elsie — very pretty girl, I remember, much younger than himself — and she died in giving birth to their only son, Colin. He was Kate’s father, of course — a very troublesome lad.”

“Explain ‘troublesome’!”

Webster coughed again. “I’ll catch my death here if I don’t look out. … Troublesome? Well, restless, you know — always a bit above his station. He was a bright child, and Sir Richard spoiled him — a handsome boy — looked like his Irish mother. Pity that Richard had no children of his own!”

“Whose fault?”

Webster lifted his eyebrows. “Fault? I shouldn’t call it that, exactly. Nobody’s, really. It happens sometimes that two people can’t have children together for some occult psychological reason, but are quite able if it’s with someone else — Ah, but that’s neither here nor there! Sir Richard has always been devoted to his wife. No, no — it was quite natural for him to be amused by Colin. The boy had a frank fearless way with him and followed Sir Richard about — learning to ride well, and so on — developed quite a talent in painting, too. Sir Richard sent him to a school. Wells disapproved of all that spoiling, I remember. He said it put the boy above his station.”

“But Sir Richard persisted?”

“Well, in a way I suppose he was right. The boy was somehow — unusual, let’s say. It was difficult for visitors to believe he was only the butler’s son, you know.”

“How did they have a chance to see him?”

“Well …” Webster hesitated.

“Come, man,” John Blayne said impatiently. “I’m not pulling your teeth, you know!”

“Well, Sir Richard would have him in, you know, at tea-time or after dinner, show him off, let him recite poems and so on.”

“In spite of Wells’ protests?”

“Yes, I suppose so. The boy was a superior sort, obviously. And devoted to Sir Richard as a consequence of the spoiling.”

“Sir Richard couldn’t bear to see Colin a servant?” He put the question sharply.

Webster considered. “As to that, Colin could not bear to see himself a servant.”

“So, he ran away to London, became an artist, then the war gave him the chance to become a hero. He married, as you so quaintly like to say it ‘above his position’ and—” John Blayne got up from the hassock and walked across the room and back again. “I’m beginning to understand.”

“Who told you that part of the story?”

“Never mind, I just got the end before the beginning. It’s true, isn’t it?”

Webster shrugged his shoulders. “Oh yes, as true as anything is in life.”

“What’s true is true, you’re a lawyer and you should know that.”

Again Webster shrugged his shoulders, then hunched himself further into the chair in search of warmth.

“Why did Lady Mary consent to all this?”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Webster bristled as if beginning defense of a client. “Sir Richard and Lady Mary are two very kind and wonderful people. I’m sure they longed for children of their own. Certainly Sir Richard has grieved because there’s no heir.”

“I wonder how a man feels when it’s his fault he has no child.”

Now it was Webster who got up and paced the floor. “Really, Mr. Blayne, I don’t know how we got on the subject. I — well, let me say that I know it wasn’t Sir Richard’s fault, as you put it — though I repudiate the word.”

“Was there never talk of a divorce?”

“Of course not! He wouldn’t want to hurt his wife, even though he has no heir! Do you take him for the Shah of Persia? Only kings have to produce offspring!”

He was relentless. “You mean there is a child somewhere?”

Webster shouted. “No — no — no! I mean no such thing. … Besides, he’s far too old—”

He broke in. “You know very well, Webster — you ought to know — if there is a child we’ll have a problem. He would be the heir to the castle.”

They faced each other again.

“There is no heir,” Webster said at last. “And I’ll thank you to let me go back to bed.”

“Of course.”

He opened the door with obvious patience, and when Webster had walked through in silence he closed it and stood thinking, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

No heir, Webster had said. No son, that was, but perhaps a child? And the child could be — Kate? Ah, but a link was missing, an essential link. Who — who was Colin? He was not leaving the castle — not yet!

… “Lady Mary!” Kate called. She had escaped safely again. Ah, but it was dangerous, meeting John Blayne like that, Kate thought, the two of them alone, and he reaching out for her, and her blood going into a turmoil at his touch. She’d never been quite in love although once, long ago, there had been a boy in the village, but Sir Richard had put an end to that. She could remember the moment as clear as yesterday, for she had never seen him so angry. He had stopped her in the great hall, alone.

“You will remember who you are,” he had said and had drawn down his eyebrows until his eyes were hidden. “I will not have the son of a farmer here in my castle.”

“I wasn’t — I didn’t dream of him coming here,” she had faltered.

“Even more disgraceful for you to meet him in secret,” he had said. “You’ll never see him again. I forbid it.”

She had run away, she was so frightened. And the boy’s family had been dismissed from the farm. She had a penciled letter on a bit of paper from the boy. “I am far away Katie not seeing you no more.” She had been repelled by the ill-written message and had soon forgotten him, but not, she knew, the excitement. Ah, Sir Richard would be just as angry if he knew now!

And then she saw Lady Mary, waiting where she had been left, in the stone corridor to the dungeon and she ran to her. Lady Mary did not move. She sat with her hands palms up on her lap, her eyes half closed.

“Wake up, my dear! … I’m back. Everything is quite all right. … And it’s nearly morning.”

She was rubbing Lady Mary’s cold hands as she spoke. She smoothed back Lady Mary’s silvery hair. There was no answer from the still figure, sitting on the damp stone ledge, her head drooping on her breast.

“God save us,” Kate whispered in sudden terror. “Have they killed her for wanting help from them? … Lady Mary, can you hear me, darling?”

Lady Mary did not answer, but Kate knew that she could bear.

“Help me,” Kate whispered, looking about her. “I’ll have to carry her somehow.”