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‘We all know what Harry is,’ said Miss Harmon. ‘We know what he was! But I expect now –’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.’
‘Dear, dear. Poor young thing.’ Miss Brent looked much happier. ‘Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she’s heard anything of the old story?’
‘It seems so very unfair,’ said Miss Brent, ‘that she should know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist’s shop in the village.’
For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married to Mr Edge, the chemist.
‘It would be so much nicer,’ said Miss Brent, ‘if Mrs Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.’
‘I dare say,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘that Harry Laxton will suggest that himself.’
And again a significant look passed between them. ‘But I certainly think,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘that she ought to know.’
‘Beasts!’ said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doctor Haydock. ‘Absolute beasts some people are.’
He looked at her curiously.
She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warm-hearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation as she said, ‘All these cats – saying things – hinting things.’
‘About Harry Laxton?’
‘Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.’
‘Oh, that!’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘A great many young men have affairs of that kind.’
‘Of course they do. And it’s all over. So why harp on it? And bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.’
‘I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so I’m afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?’
Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curiously muffled voice. ‘They – they look so happy. The Laxtons, I mean. They’re young and in love, and it’s all so lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness.’
‘H’m. I see.’
Clarice went on. ‘He was talking to me just now. He’s so happy and eager and excited and – yes, thrilled – at having got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like a child about it all. And she – well, I don’t suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She’s always had everything. You’ve seen her. What did you think of her?’
The doctor did not answer at once. For other people, Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago, Poor little rich girl –
A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.
Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go. Perhaps, even now, Harry might say so. She looked at him sideways. So tall and broad-shouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.
Poor little rich girl –
‘Ooph!’ It was a sigh of relief.
Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party.
She said, ‘Darling, what a frightful party!’
Harry laughed. ‘Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been terribly disappointed not to have got a look at you close up.’
Louise made a grimace. She said, ‘Shall we have to see a lot of them?’
‘What? Oh, no. They’ll come and make ceremonious calls with card cases, and you’ll return the calls and then you needn’t bother any more. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.’
Louise said, after a minute or two, ‘Isn’t there anyone amusing living down here?’
‘Oh, yes. There’s the County, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that. There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beautiful animal, perfectly trained, no vice in him but plenty of spirit.’
The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsdean. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.
Louise clutched his arm. ‘Who’s that – that horrible old woman?’ Harry’s brow was black. ‘That’s old Murgatroyd. She and her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were there for nearly thirty years.’
‘Why does she shake her fist at you?’
Harry’s face got red. ‘She – well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.’
‘Is she – she isn’t – starving?’
Louise’s ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.
Harry was outraged. ‘Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course – and handsomely, too! Found her a new cottage and everything.’
Louise asked, bewildered, ‘Then why does she mind?’
Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together. ‘Oh, how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.’
‘But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course it was – crumbling to pieces – roof leaking – more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant something to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh, I don’t know! The old devil’s cracked, I think.’
Louise said uneasily, ‘She – I think she cursed us. Oh, Harry, I wish she hadn’t.’
It seemed to Louise that her new home was tainted and poisoned by the malevolent figure of one crazy old woman. When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she walked out with the dogs, there was always the same figure waiting. Crouched down on herself, a battered hat over wisps of iron-grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprecations.
Louise came to believe that Harry was right – the old woman was mad. Nevertheless that did not make things easier. Mrs Murgatroyd never actually came to the house, nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence. Her squatting figure remained always just outside the gates. To appeal to the police would have been useless and, in any case,
Harry Laxton was averse to that course of action. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old brute. He took the matter more easily than Louise did.
‘Don’t worry about it, darling. She’ll get tired of this silly cursing business. Probably she’s only trying it on.’
‘She isn’t, Harry. She – she hates us! I can feel it. She – she’s ill-wishing us.’
‘She’s not a witch, darling, although she may look like one! Don’t be morbid about it all.’
Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end. She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She had no knowledge of or taste for English country life. She was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of ‘doing the flowers’. She did not really care for dogs. She was bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding best, sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy about the estate, by herself. She hacked through the woods and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse that Harry had bought for her. Yet even Prince Hal, most sensitive of chestnut steeds, was wont to shy and snort as he carried his mistress past the huddled figure of a malevolent old woman.
One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was out walking. She had passed Mrs Murgatroyd, pretending not to notice her, but suddenly she swerved back and went right up to her. She said, a little breathlessly, ‘What is it? W
hat’s the matter? What do you want?’
The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning, dark gypsy face, with wisps of iron-grey hair, and bleared, suspicious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.
She spoke in a whining and yet threatening voice. ‘What do I want, you ask? What, indeed! That which has been took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean House? I’d lived there, girl and woman, for near on forty years. It was a black deed to turn me out and it’s black bad luck it’ll bring to you and him!’
Louise said, ‘You’ve got a very nice cottage and –’
She broke off. The old woman’s arms flew up. She screamed, ‘What’s the good of that to me? It’s my own place I want and my own fire as I sat beside all them years. And as for you and him, I’m telling you there will be no happiness for you in your new fine house. It’s the black sorrow will be upon you! Sorrow and death and my curse. May your fair face rot.’
Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run. She thought, I must get away from here! We must sell the house! We must go away.
At the moment, such a solution seemed easy to her. But Harry’s utter incomprehension took her back. He exclaimed, ‘Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy old woman’s threats? You must be mad.’
‘No, I’m not. But she – she frightens me, I know something will happen.’
Harry Laxton said grimly, ‘Leave Mrs Murgatroyd to me. I’ll settle her!’
