Victoria Holt - The Shivering Sands

“You mean that indirectly you may be responsible?”

“I fear that’s obvious. The poor child—for that was what she was—was afraid of me. Everyone was aware of this. So…I am branded Edith’s murderer.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not, when they’re true? I thought you would be the first to agree with me that it is never wrong to speak the truth. I am telling you why you should spare your pity on my account. You can ask the advice of a number of people and they will all give you the same answer. They will assure you that you waste your pity. And more than that. They will warn you. Think of the case against me. Are you wise to linger in a haunted chapel with me?”

“Please be serious. This is a serious matter.”

“I’m deadly serious. You are in danger. You, my beautiful, poised widow are in acute danger.”

“How and from whom?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

His answer was to turn to me and with a swift movement put his arms about me. He held me tightly against him so that I could feel the beating of his heart and I knew he could feel mine. He put his face against my head. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he did not. He just stood very still holding me, and I remained in his arms, without protest because my one desire was to stay there and it was too strong to be resisted.

At length I said: “This is…unwise.”

Then he laughed bitterly and answered: “That is what I told you. Most unwise. You wanted to know why you are in danger. I told you.”

“And you wish to preserve me from that danger?”

“Oh no. I want to lead you right into it. But I am perverse. I want you to walk straight into it…knowing the danger…seeing the danger…I want you to choose it.”

“Are you talking in riddles?”

“Riddles to which we both know the answer. You could call it that. I will state my intentions which can scarcely be called honorable. Let’s look at the facts. I murdered my brother.”

“I insist on the truth,” I interrupted. “You shot your brother accidentally.”

“…when I was seventeen. My mother killed herself because of it. So there were two deaths at my door.”

“I don’t agree. You can’t be blamed for that.”

“Sweet counsel,” he said. “Sweet vehement counsel for the defense. While I was in Australia I longed to come home…but when I arrived I discovered that what I longed for was no longer there. I had dreamed of my home before the accident. How different it was! I was married. It was after all for this I had come home. My wife was a child…a frightened child who was afraid of me and I don’t blame her. She was in love with someone else. What could I do with such a marriage? No sooner had I made it than I began to wonder whether it would have been better for us all if I had remained on the Station.”

“But you love Lovat Stacy!”

He nodded.

“It’s your home…where your roots are.”

“And it’s not easy for some to uproot themselves. Why, I am taking over your job…defending myself, and that’s exactly what I must not do. There is no defense. I shot my brother. It is something I shall never forget.”

“But you must…you must.”

“Please don’t be so determined. You unnerve me. No one has ever tried to make a hero of me before.”

“I…make a hero of you! I assure you I am not doing that. I merely want you to face facts as they are…to realize that it is a mistake to brood on tragedies of the past…particularly when they are accidents which could happen to any of us.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Could this happen to your friend Godfrey Wilmot for instance?”

I was dismayed and he was aware of it. How deeply conscious we were of each other!

“Anyone could have such an accident,” I said sternly.

“Do you ever hear of anyone who did but me?”

“No, but…”

“Of course you didn’t. And there is Godfrey Wilmot, that eligible young man, who can offer so much. Perhaps he has already offered and been accepted.”

“I fear a great many people have been jumping to conclusions.”

“At which I infer there has been no formal betrothal.”

“It is embarrassing when one is friendly with a young man and everyone attempts to marry one off to him.”

“People like to imagine they are prophets.”

“Then I wish they would leave me out of their prophecies.”

“You have not thought of marrying again? It is because you still think of your late husband. But you’ve changed,” he added softly. “I’ve noticed the change. Did you know you laugh more frequently? You seem to have found a new reason for living. Lovat Stacy has done that for you.”

I was silent and he went on: “Could you have cared so much for him if you can forget him so quickly?”

“Forget him!” I said vehemently. “I shall never forget Pietro.”

“But you are ready now to build a new life. Is he going to be there always…the shadowy third? He will grow more perfect every year. He will never grow old. How could anyone compete with him?”

I shivered and said: “The night air is cool. I can feel that my feet are damp.”

He stooped and taking my foot removed my shoe. He held my foot in his hand and said: “You should have put on something heavier than this flimsy thing.”

“There wasn’t time. I wanted to catch the ghost.”

“You wanted to know who was so determined that my brother’s death should not be forgotten.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You are a very inquisitive young woman.”

“I fear so.”

“And an impulsive one.”

“That’s true.”

“You were impulsive once. Perhaps you will be so again.” He put on my shoe. “You are shivering a little. Is it the night air? There is a question I want to ask you. Once you made a decision. From a worldly point of view it was a very stupid decision. You threw away your career…for a man. You must have experienced a great deal of soul-searching when you did that. Did you?”

“No.”

“There was no great wrestling with yourself?”

“No.”

“As usual you were impulsive and you believed that decision the right one…the only one?”

“Yes.”

“And you regret it now.”

“I regret nothing.”

“You made a bold decision once.” He spoke almost wistfully. “I wonder if you would ever do it again.”

“Perhaps I have not changed very much.”

“Perhaps we shall discover how much. I am glad you don’t regret. People who do are often sorry for themselves and self-pity is such an unattractive quality. I try to avoid it.”

“You do…very successfully.”

“But I fear I am often sorry for myself. Constantly I say to myself: ‘How different it might have been if…’ And I have said that more frequently since you came here. You know why. There is so much between you and me,” he said. “Edith. Poor Edith…so much more effective in death than in life.”

“Death?” I said sharply.

“I think of her as dead. Ah, how suspicious you are. You doubt me. And yet a little while ago…Oh yes, you doubted me, and in a way I wanted you to. I want to say to myself…in spite of her doubts…You see then it would be the same sort of blindness which affected you before. No consideration for anything.”

I interrupted quickly: “I must tell you that I overheard your quarrel with your father…some of it at least. I heard him telling you that he would send you away.”

“And you heard me refusing to go.”

“And shortly afterwards I played that piece of music which someone put with the sheets he had chosen for me.”

“And you think I put it there.”

“Not unless you tell me you did.”

“Then I will tell you I did not. And you will believe me?”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe you.”

He took my hand and kissed it.

“Please,” I said, “always tell me the truth. If I am going to be of any use I must know the truth.”

“You make me very happy,” he said; and I was deeply moved because I had never heard his voice so low, so tender.

“It is what I want,” I replied impulsively. Then I added quickly: “I must return to the house.”

I started to move away. He was beside me and he said suddenly: “There was always a link between us. We were both being smothered by the past. I killed my brother; and you loved not wisely but too well.”

“I do not believe it is ever unwise to love and one cannot love too well.”

“So you defy the poet?”

“I do. I am sure one cannot love too much…give too much…for the greatest joy in life is surely loving and giving.”

“More than loving and receiving?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then you must have been very happy.”

“I was.”

We were crossing the lawns and the garden loomed before us.

“So,” I said, “we did not find the ghost.”

“No,” he answered, “but perhaps we discovered something more important.”

“Good night,” I said. I left him standing outside and went into the house.

I looked in at Mrs. Lincroft’s sitting room to tell her that I was not going to the vicarage that morning and that Sylvia would be returning with the girls for her music lesson now that she had recovered from her spell in bed. The door was slightly ajar and I knocked lightly. There was no answer so I called Mrs. Lincroft softly and pushing open the door, looked in.

To my astonishment she was there, seated at the table, a newspaper spread out before her. She had not heard me, which was strange.

“Mrs. Lincroft,” I said, “are you all right?”

She looked up then, and I saw how pale she was and that there was a strange glazed look in her eyes which could have been unshed tears.