Inheritance Feud

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

beat. He hoped her aunt was kind to her. Lately, she hadn't come so often, and she seemed, he thought, peaked and pale: perhaps she was worried about her cousin, lacking news. The pony moreover had strained a fetlock, and it was understand able that Annabel would not come as frequently to see him when she couldn't ride; his own company would be dull, he knew. But he wished he could see her soon again, and perhaps discuss the water-garden with her; a notion had come to him lately about diverting and clearing the narrow muddy stream which meandered nearby the gate, to make a small pool there for water-plants, and perhaps some of the bright met allic fish he'd seen in tanks on dealers' booths in London, driving by as he used to do in the coach. Here, one was closer to the things which made the waking hours pass pleas antly; he'd hardly used the coach since he came, only his light garden-chair. Water-soldier, perhaps, and the yellow flags which grew so well in the north, and valerian, reflecting its fire in the pool in summer, when the flags had already made long fruit. Any bright, perfect thing to contribute to Anna bel's delight, so that he could watch as she stooped over the pool, and looked down at the circling fish, and saw her own fair face reflected in the surface, like some fairy princess with a magic mirror which could preserve her for a hundred years in unaltered beauty.

But no magic could transform him, he knew. It was only in fables that the frog-prince, the monster, the beast, turned to comeliness. If she came-surely she must in the end, when his heart so longed for her!-she'd have to see him, daily, as he was. Was it too much to ask of any young woman? Could she ever, knowing his very mind and heart, let him love her? For that she should ever love him in return was beyond the bounds of possibility, Godfrey thought; one couldn't hope for the impossible. But perhaps she could gradually accustom herself to him; he hoped, at any rate, after their excursions together with the weeds and shells, that she liked him, was in terested, knew she no longer made him shy.

How he loved her, he thought; a love so strong as his could give rise to no denial, in the end. He could give her so much she'd always wanted; not only things like the pony, like the pool, fine clothes, a harpsichord, her parents' portrait hung above the grate. He'd give her Malvie itself in gift, if she came. If only she would, before he died of longing or had to retreat, as he was doing now, into a world of imagination ... if only she would come!

"She was sick again this morning," said Livia,

They were seated side by side in the spinney, hands touch ing, she and Morven. It was already night, there was a chill in the air and the very leaves had thinned, and Livia began to shiver. I must go in soon, she thought. They hadn't made love. These days, she was too tired for it; and still angry with him.

"You know why I had to do it, don't you?" he said, reading her silence. He could forget, by now, that he hadn't ever told her directly about himself and Annabel; she knew, had pro bably always known from the beginning. He hardly needed to explain to Livia, for she would know, knowing him, that it was for Malvie; but when he mentioned the house she merely moved her shoulders away with a bitter, sideways shrug.

"What's a heap of stones?" she said; no one else would have dared say it to Morven, and he did not answer. She went on. "It'll hurt that pretty, innocent dear," she said, "that's all I know; and him. Oh, you laugh at him for a cripple, I know that; anything's weak or off the straight, and it's like the worms to you, made for no more than being trodden on. But he's seen trouble already, Mr. Godfrey; and he's a good kind soul."

"And I'm not?" He tried to fondle her, but she drew away. "No," she said, "you've maybe no soul at all. You're maybe one of the damned, Morven Doon; I know that, but-" Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder. "I'll be damned along with you, then," she said. "Best take me away soon." She sat up, and laid a hand on her belly. "Each day I go to her, I think she's noticed," she said. "She's sharp; it'll happen one day." She could see, in her mind's eye, Mrs. Retford with the birch in her hand, so often lately used on Miss Annabel, and not sparing at that. She herself would be spared much less. They'd be going to Man, maybe, but

She found that his talk of the whitewashed cottage, and the life they would have together above the Ayre, had never seemed real. It hadn't been safe to make it seem so, maybe. She heard Morven's talk of a boat he'd found now, along the coast somewhere. "Get your gear all ready, lass." He'd said it before; but his eyes sparkled. Livia wished she could rid herself of the heaviness that lay in her; not the child's weight, she was used to that. It was like a fog in the mind, a damp blinding thing creeping up from the sea. She wished they were away, she and Morven, together. Three days from now... She made herself think of it, and then think of Miss Annabel.

Morven put out an arm to draw her to him; she evaded it. "What about her?" she asked him. He surveyed her, his eyes glinting in the light dark.

"She will marry Devenham, naturally. What more do you want to know?" He was mocking her, his mouth gently smiling; but she knew that he was not pleased. She felt anger rise high in her; did he think he was God, in the Bible, saying this should be and that should be? "You'll leave her, like that?" she said. "You'd sail with me away to Man, and-and just leave her to find it out for herself, all of it, and go to him, if he'll take her? She'll-she'll-she'll make an end of

herself." "No Doon has yet done so."

"Ah, damn your Doons."

He laughed, and turned to her whether she would or not; and caressed the place where the child lay, feeling it swell the gathers of her apron. It was sweet to have his hand there; but that still didn't take care of the matter of Miss Annabel, or of how she was to be persuaded into that cripple's bed in time to let everyone think, including no doubt himself, that the child was his; and all for Malvie.

Malvie, Livia thought, casting a glance almost of hate at the tall chimneys rearing beyond the slope of the near hill; Malvie, as much a part of Morven as any woman would ever be! If he had a soul, Malvie was part of it; if he hadn't, then what was left of him after death would merge with Malvie earth, and come up again in the grass and growing trees. Malvie, a house. She wasn't jealous of it; it wasn't jealousy, rather fear she felt: fear lest Morven overreach himself, in this grand plan he had, and bring them all three, Miss Annabel and himself and her, to ruin.

She stared at him now, seated by her confident, well-fed and young and lithe as the devil; the devil would always be served, and she and Aaron, and his remaining son Abel Judd, had kept Morven Doon in bite and sup, though the Lord knew they'd not always conveyed it easily. Why did she love Mor ven so? His hair, even in the twilight which concealed much, was unkempt and dusty: he hadn't washed or combed it during all of his stay in Malvie, and he needed a shave. A tramp, he seemed like, with Philip Doon's old coat hanging loose on his shoulders, and buttons gone. But he didn't look like a tramp, Morven Doon, and never would; wherever he was, in whatever company. "God help me," thought Livia unaccountably. The love she felt for Morven tugged at her heart, making a silver chain between him and the unborn child. His child, that she'd bear gladly.