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‘Well?’
‘It sounds such rot. Mrs Haworth said: “I shouldn’t go in if I were you . . .”’ He paused. ‘It frightened me, you know. It frightened me badly. That’s why I told you about the dream . . . Because, you see, she said it just the same way – quietly, as though she knew something I didn’t. It wasn’t just a pretty woman who wanted to keep me out in the garden with her. Her voice was just kind – and very sorry. Almost as though she knew what was to come . . . I suppose it was rude, but I turned and left her – almost ran to the house. It seemed like safety. I knew then that I’d been afraid of her from the first. It was a relief to see old Lawes. Esther was there beside him . . .’ He hesitated a minute and then muttered rather obscurely: ‘There was no question – the moment I saw her. I knew I’d got it in the neck.’
Macfarlane’s mind flew swiftly to Esther Lawes. He had once heard her summed up as ‘Six foot one of Jewish perfection.’ A shrewd portrait, he thought, as he remembered her unusual height and the long slender-
ness of her, the marble whiteness of her face with its delicate down-drooping nose, and the black splendour of hair and eyes. Yes, he did not wonder that the boyish simplicity of Dickie had capitulated. Esther could never have made his own pulses beat one jot faster, but he admitted her magnificence.
‘And then,’ continued Dickie, ‘we got engaged.’
‘At once?’
‘Well, after about a week. It took her about a fortnight after that to find out that she didn’t care after all . . .’ He gave a short bitter laugh.
‘It was the last evening before I went back to the old ship. I was coming back from the village through the woods – and then I saw her – Mrs Haworth, I mean. She had on a red tam-o’-shanter, and – just for a minute, you know – it made me jump! I’ve told you about my dream, so you’ll understand . . . Then we walked along a bit. Not that there was a word Esther couldn’t have heard, you know . . .’
‘No?’ Macfarlane looked at his friend curiously. Strange how people told you things of which they themselves were unconscious!
‘And then, when I was turning to go back to the house, she stopped me. She said: “You’ll be home soon enough. I shouldn’t go back too soon if I were you . . .” And then I knew – that there was something beastly waiting for me . . . and . . . as soon as I got back Esther met me, and told me – that she’d found out she didn’t really care . . .’
Macfarlane grunted sympathetically.
‘And Mrs Haworth?’ he asked. ‘I never saw her again – until tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. At the doctor johnny’s nursing home. They had a look at my leg, the one that got messed up in that torpedo business. It’s worried me a bit lately. The old chap advised an operation – it’ll be quite a simple thing. Then as I left the place, I ran into a girl in a red jumper over her nurse’s things, and she said: “I wouldn’t have that operation, if I were you . . .” Then I saw it was Mrs Haworth. She passed on so quickly I couldn’t stop her. I met another nurse, and asked about her. But she said there wasn’t anyone of that name in the home . . . Queer . . .’
‘Sure it was her?’
‘Oh! yes, you see – she’s very beautiful . . .’ He paused, and then added: ‘I shall have the old op, of course – but – but in case my number should be up –’
‘Rot!’
‘Of course it’s rot. But all the same I’m glad I told you about this gipsy business . . . You know, there’s more of it if only I could remember . . .’
* * *
Macfarlane walked up the steep moorland road. He turned in at the gate of the house near the crest of the hill. Setting his jaw squarely, he pulled the bell.
‘Is Mrs Haworth in?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.’ The maid left him in a low long room, with windows that gave on the wildness of the moorland. He frowned a little. Was he making a colossal ass of himself?
Then he started. A low voice was singing overhead:
‘The gipsy woman
Lives on the moor –’
The voice broke off. Macfarlane’s heart beat a shade faster. The door opened.
The bewildering, almost Scandinavian fairness of her came as a shock. In spite of Dickie’s description, he had imagined her gipsy dark . . . And he suddenly remembered Dickie’s words, and the peculiar tone of them. ‘You see, she’s very beautiful . . .’ Perfect unquestionable beauty is rare, and perfect unquestionable beauty was what Alistair Haworth possessed.
He caught himself up, and advanced towards her. ‘I’m afraid you don’t know me from Adam. I got your address from the Lawes. But – I’m a friend of Dickie Carpenter’s.’
She looked at him closely for a minute or two. Then she said: ‘I was going out. Up on the moor. Will you come too?’
She pushed open the window, and stepped out on the hillside. He followed her. A heavy, rather foolish-looking man was sitting in a basket-chair smoking.
‘My husband! We’re going out on the moor, Maurice. And then Mr Macfarlane will come back to lunch with us. You will, won’t you?’
‘Thanks very much.’ He followed her easy stride up the hill, and thought to himself: ‘Why? Why, on God’s earth, marry that?’
Alistair made her way to some rocks. ‘We’ll sit here. And you shall tell me – what you came to tell me.’
‘You knew?’
‘I always know when bad things are coming. It is bad, isn’t it? About Dickie?’
‘He underwent a slight operation – quite successfully. But his heart must have been weak. He died under the anaesthetic.’
What he expected to see on her face, he scarcely knew – hardly that look of utter eternal weariness . . . He heard her murmur: ‘Again – to wait – so long – so long . . .’ She looked up: ‘Yes, what were you going to say?’
‘Only this. Someone warned him against this operation. A nurse. He thought it was you. Was it?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t me. But I’ve got a cousin who is a nurse. She’s rather like me in a dim light. I dare say that was it.’ She looked up at him again. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ And then suddenly her eyes widened. She drew in her breath. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh! How funny! You don’t understand . . .’
Macfarlane was puzzled. She was still staring at him. ‘I thought you did . . . You should do. You look as though you’d got it, too . . .’
‘Got what?’
‘The gift – curse – call it what you like. I believe you have. Look hard at that hollow in the rocks. Don’t think of anything, just look . . . Ah!’ she marked his slight start. ‘Well – you saw something?’
‘It must have been imagination. Just for a second I saw it full of blood!’ She nodded. ‘I knew you had it. That’s the place where the old sunworshippers sacrificed victims. I knew that before anyone told me. And there are times when I know just how they felt about it – almost as though I’d been there myself . . . And there’s something about the moor that makes me feel as though I were coming back home . . . Of course it’s natural that I should have the gift. I’m a Ferguesson. There’s second sight in the family. And my mother was a medium until my father married her. Cristing was her name. She was rather celebrated.’
‘Do you mean by “the gift” the power of being able to see things before they happen?’
‘Yes, forwards or backwards – it’s all the same. For instance, I saw you wondering why I married Maurice – oh! yes, you did! – It’s simply because I’ve always known that there’s something dreadful hanging over him . . . I wanted to save him from it . . . Women are like that. With my gift, I ought to be able to prevent it happening . . . if one ever can . . . I couldn’t help Dickie. And Dickie wouldn’t understand . . . He was afraid. He was very young.’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘And I’m thirty. But I didn’t mean that. There are so many ways of being divided, length and height and breadth . . . but to be divided by time is the worst way of all . . .’ She fell into a
long brooding silence.
The low peal of a gong from the house below roused them.
At lunch, Macfarlane watched Maurice Haworth. He was undoubtedly madly in love with his wife. There was the unquestioning happy fondness of a dog in his eyes. Macfarlane marked also the tenderness of her response, with its hint of maternity. After lunch he took his leave.
‘I’m staying down at the inn for a day or so. May I come and see you again? Tomorrow, perhaps?’
‘Of course. But –’
‘But what –’
She brushed her hand quickly across her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I – I fancied that we shouldn’t meet again – that’s all . . . Good-bye.’
He went down the road slowly. In spite of himself, a cold hand seemed tightening round his heart. Nothing in her words, of course, but –
