“I must remember those repairs — I mustn’t let this interfere with my duties.”
Then she stood still, listening. There was another sound beside that of the tumbling water. Something being dragged — a village child stealing an old, dry bough, perhaps. She strained her ears, which were a little stunned by the incessant roar of the water, and walking forward through the bracken almost stumbled on a spade resting against one of the straight, fine trunks.
She concentrated on this for a moment, frowning, wondering, considering; when she looked round suddenly and saw John Portis a few paces away, he was absorbed in the task of dragging along the body of Agatha.
Miss Fryer knew at once the black-and-white check shawl, the black chip straw bonnet. He had not seen her and she could have easily fled, but she never thought of doing so. Her whole being veered towards and settled on this brutal solution of a problem with which she need no longer concern herself; she felt lifted up, out of herself.
“John Portis.”
The man turned, at once alert and cautious, as if his attendant devil had spoken.
She went towards him.
“There has been an accident.”
He straightened himself; Agatha, looking very small, lay at his feet; one of her shoes had come off.
Mary Fryer looked at the young man and smiled; faced by this complete understanding he said:
“I waited for her. She always came this way to Lyston.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected. When I faced her with it she couldn’t deny it. A dirty drab! Begging your pardon, Miss Fryer.”
“I don’t mind. It is true. She told me.”
“I swore last night I’d do it — if it were true. I don’t mind swinging.”
“Why should you be — punished — for an accident?”
“An accident? I—”
He broke off and they both stared down at Agatha. The girl had been strangled; everything was hideous about her except the long, loose fair locks that fell out of her crushed bonnet.
“Why did you fetch the spade. Portis?”
“I ran back for it to the woodman’s hut — I was taking her to where there’s space enough — and the ground not so hard.”
“That is all foolish. The bridge is broken and she would wear those high-heeled shoes. How natural for her to fall into the stream! No one would enquire further than that—”
The man’s rigid face became full of light and energy; it was like a mask coming to life. “My God! — I never thought of that!”
“Cover up her eyes, Portis — they tell too much. Though I dare say by the time she’s been dashed from one rock to another—”
Miss Fryer dropped her clean, fragrant handkerchief and walked ahead without looking back, towards the broken bridge. She heard him busy with his burden, behind; she wondered if his will or her own was animating him.
She went on to the bridge and still she did not look at what he was about, but broke away some of the rotten wooden railings and kicked some pieces of the powdering planks and cast them down into the powerful stream.
“Now they will see that these are fresh marks—” She looked below and saw the check shawl, black bonnet, far down the glistening rocks. He was adroit and powerful. She descended from the frail bridge and picked her way to where he stood dumb on the edge of the swift waterfall, gazing after his victim. He was strong, ruthless, magnificent as the roaring water itself; her pale glance caressed every line and hue of his vigorous manhood.
“You have disturbed some bracken and boughs. You will be able to put that right? And put that spade back. Quickly!”
He turned to stare at her and her love was perfected by his complete absence of subserviency.
“Why did you do it, ma’am? I didn’t mind taking the penalty. It was because of the flies I was going to bury her — not to hide it.”
“Yet you were glad of my suggestion?”
“Yes. It seemed an escape — but I don’t know.”
“I do. This ends everything. She won’t be disgraced either.”
“It seems better like this. The law don’t touch a thing like this either, does it, ma’am?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You see, she was mine. Do what I liked with. If it were any but that filthy carter — spending my money, too — and here, in this wood — where we used to meet — he and she — again asking your pardon, ma’am.”
“You needn’t, I thought of it too. And wondered, too. I don’t understand these women who are just animals.”
His handsome face settled into woe. “Why couldn’t she like me?”
“She was a fool, Portis. We had better go.”
He trudged heavily beside her until they reached the path; out of sight of the stream and what the tumbling waters played with...
“This is my land, Portis. I have the right to decide for you — you are in my employ. I feel that you are mine, to do what I like with.” Miss Fryer was rather breathless. “I suppose you would prefer to get away — from Croom Wood? I could find you work with a friend of mine in Dorset.”
“Thank you, ma’am, that would be better,” he replied absently.
She touched his corduroy sleeve and asked very delicately: “How do you feel, Portis?”
“Numb. As if my heart and all the feeling in it had been cut out of my body.”
“It’s good — after all the — pain. You’ll come to life again. There are other women. I’ll look after you, as long as you like.”
He peered at her blankly.
“Why, ma’am?”
“You are a good servant. I have no fault to find with you.” She looked curiously at the strong hands that now hung slackly by his side, but that had, a little while before, crushed the life out of Agatha; and she smiled again. “Goodbye! Do not forget the spade. Remember to be careful. And you must live — and forget.”
He touched his forelock mechanically and turned away. She watched him fetch the spade, return to the path, and disappear up the rising ground; she felt that her will, not his, was doing this.
There was still something for her to do. That other shoe... She searched for it, found it, returned to the bridge and threw it over into the water. Silly, cheap, high-heeled shoe — she had never before touched an intimate article belonging to a servant. She was sorry she had given him the handkerchief; but even if it were found, she could explain it away...
Miss Fryer returned home; she had a great sense of ease, of liberation, as if life had reached a climax, as if she had fulfilled an imperative need; she had not failed herself.
The first fire burned on the spacious hearth; there was a delicious smell of pastry, of roast meat — preparing for her dinner; her nostrils expanded with relish; she drank two glasses of sherry from the heavy decanter on the sideboard.
Would he be able to carry it through?
She trusted him. And for herself? There might, she supposed, be nights when she would dream of Croom Wood and what might be muttering and wailing there. There might be moments when she would wonder at herself and him. At present she felt exalted. She took off and threw into the fire her gloves soiled with powderings of dry wood; her pale eyes looked round at the protective faces of her ancestors. A Fryer would know what to do.
She had known — without hesitation or a single slip.
Now she was tired; she sank into her comfortable chair without removing her neat hat. Her mind, not functioning quite normally, reverted to the last three items in her commonplace book. She could put her pen through that relating to Agatha’s high heels — the bridge would certainly be repaired now. Nor was she likely to forget the blue flowers, emblem of a veiled, an obscure passion — Love-in-a-Mist.