CHAPTER LII
There were four of them in the
search-party: Anthony, the policeman, an old shepherd, with the grey whiskers
and the majestic profile of a Victorian statesman, and a fair, red-faced boy of
seventeen, the baker's son. The boy was
made to carry the canvas part of the stretcher, while the shepherd and the
policeman used the long poles as staves.
They
set out from behind the cottage, walking in a line – like beaters, Anthony
found himself reflecting – up the slope of the hill. It was a brilliant day, cloudless and
windless. The distant hills showed as
though through veils, dim with much sunlight and almost without colour. Under their feet the grass and heather were
dusty with long drought. Anthony took
off his jacket, and then, on second thoughts, his hat. A touch of sunstroke might simplify things;
there would be no need to give explanations or answer questions. Even as it was, he felt rather sick and there
was a griping in his bowels. But that
was hardly enough. How many difficulties
would be removed if he could be really ill!
Every now and then, as they climbed slowly on, he put his hand to his
head, and each time the hair felt hot to the touch, like the fur of a cat that
has been sitting in front of the fire.
It was a pity, he thought, that his hair was so thick.
Three
hours later they had found what they were looking for. Brian's body was lying, face downwards, in a
kind of rocky bay, at the foot of a cliff above the tarn. Bracken was growing between the rocks, and in
the hot air its sweetish, oppressive scent was almost suffocatingly
strong. The place was loud with flies. When the policeman turned the body over, the
mangled face was almost unrecognizable.
Anthony looked for a moment, then turned
away. His whole body had begun to
tremble uncontrollably; he had to lean against a rock to prevent himself from falling.
'Come,
lad.' The old shepherd took him by the
arm and, leading him away, made him sit down on the grass, out of sight of the
body. Anthony waited. A buzzard turned slowly in the sky, tracing
out the passage of time on an invisible clock-face. Then at last they came out from behind the
buttress of rock into his view. The
shepherd and the boy walked in front, each holding one pole of the stretcher,
while the policeman, behind, had to support the weight on both the poles. Brian's torn jacket had been taken off and
spread over his face. One stiffened arm
stuck out irrepressibly and, at every step the bearers took, swung and trembled
in the air. There were bloodstains on
the shirt. Anthony got up, and, in spite
of their protestations, insisted on taking half the policeman's burden. Very slowly, they made their way down towards
the valley. It was after
Later,
the policeman went through the pockets of coat and trousers. A tobacco pouch, a pipe, Mrs Benson's packet
of sandwiches, six or seven shillings in money, and a notebook half full of
jottings about the economic history of the
Mrs
Foxe arrived the following evening. Rigid
at first with self-control, she listened in silence, stonily, to Anthony's
story; then, all at once, broke down, fell to pieces as it were, in a passion
of tears. Anthony stood by her for a
moment, uncertainly; then crept out of the room.
Next
morning, when he saw her again, Mrs Foxe had recovered her calm – but a
different kind of calm. The calm of a living, sentient being, not the mechanical and frozen
stillness of a statue. There were
dark lines under her eyes, and the face was that of an old and suffering woman;
but there was a sweetness and serenity in the suffering, an expression of
dignity, almost of majesty. Looking at
her, Anthony felt himself abashed, as though he were in the presence of
something that he was not worthy, that he had no right, to approach. Abashed and guilty, more
guilty even than he had felt the night before, when her grief had passed
beyond her control.
He
would have liked to escape once more; but she kept him with her all the
morning, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes speaking in that slow, beautifully modulated voice of hers. To Anthony silence and speech were equally a
torture. It was an agony to sit there,
saying nothing, listening to the clock ticking, and wondering, worrying about
the future – how to get away from Joan, what to tell her about that accursed
letter of hers; and every now and then stealing a glance at Mrs Foxe and asking
himself what was going on in her mind and whether she had any knowledge, any
suspicion even, of what had really happened.
Yes, her silences were painful; but equally painful was her speech.
'I
realize,' she began, slowly and pensively, 'I realize now that I lived him in
the wrong way – too possessively.'
What
was he to say? That it was true? Of course it was true. She had been like a vampire, fastened on poor
Brian's spirit. Sucking
his life's blood. (St Monica, he remembered, by Ary Scheffer.) Yes, a
vampire. If anyone was responsible for
Brian's death, it was she. But his self-justificatory indignation against her evaporated as
she spoke again.
'Perhaps
that was one of the reasons why it happened, in order that I might learn that
love mustn't be like that.' Then, after
a pause, 'I suppose,' she went on, 'Brian had learnt enough. He hadn't very much to learn, really. He knew so much to start with. Like Mozart – only his genius wasn't for
music; it was for love. Perhaps that was
why he could go so soon. Whereas I …'
She shook her head. I've had to have
this lesson. After all
these long years of learning, still so wilfully stupid and ignorant!' She sighed and was silent once more.
A
vampire – but she knew it; she admitted her share of responsibility. There remained his share – still
unconfessed. 'I ought to tell her,' he
said to himself, and thought of all that had resulted from his failure to tell
the truth to Brian. But while he was
hesitating, Mrs Foxe began again.
'One
ought to love everyone like an only son,' she went on. 'And one's own only son as one amongst
them. A son one can't help loving more
than the rest, because one has more opportunities for loving him. But the love would be different only in
quantity, not in kind. One ought to love
him as one loves all the other only sons – for God's sake, not for one's own.'
The
richly vibrant voice spoke on, and, with every word it uttered, Anthony felt more guilty – more guilty and at the same time more
completely and hopelessly committed to his guilt. The longer he delayed and the more she said
in this strain of resignation, the harder it was going to be to undeceive her
with the truth.
'Listen,
Anthony,' she resumed, after another long pause. 'You know how fond of your
I've always been. Ever since that
time just after your mother's death – do you remember? - when
you first came to stay with us. You were
such a defenceless little boy. And
that's how I've always seen you, ever since.
Defenceless under your armour. For, of course, you've had an
armour. You still have. To protect yourself against
me, among other dangers.' She
smiled at him. Anthony dropped his eyes,
blushed and mumbled some incoherent phrase.
'Never mind why you've wanted to protect yourself,' she went on. 'I don't want to know, unless you want to
tell me. And perhaps you'll feel you
want to protect yourself still more now.
Because I'm going to say that I'd like you to take Brian's place. The place,' she qualified, 'that Brian ought to have had if I'd loved him in the right
way. Among all the other only sons, the
one whom there's more opportunity of loving than the rest. That's what I'd like you to be, Anthony. But, of course, I won't force myself on
you. It's for you to decide.'
He
sat in silence, his face averted from her, his head bent. 'Blurt it out,' a voice was crying within
him. 'Anyhow, at any
price!' But if it had been
difficult before, now it was impossible.
Saying she wanted him to take Brian's place! It was she who had made it impossible. He was shaken by a gust of futile anger. If only she'd leave him in peace, let him go
away and be alone! Suddenly his throat
contracted, the tears came into his eyes, the muscles of his chest tightened in
spasm after violent spasm; he was sobbing.
Mrs Foxe crossed the room and, bending over him, laid a hand on his
shoulder.
'Poor
Anthony,' she whispered.
He
was pinned irrevocably to his lie.
That
evening he wrote to Joan. This horrible accident.
So unnecessary.
So stupid in its tragedy. It had happened, as a matter of fact, before
he had had an opportunity for telling Brian about those events in
