Grey Wethers: A Romantic Novel

by V. Sackville-West

“Of course we must search for them,” he said, frightened and bewildered and angry. “But,—really this is a most extraordinary story,—how do you know she has gone with young Lovel? Clare!” he said, indignant, “whom I trusted to wander about at will,—to deceive me in this fashion!—but she never came to any harm, whilst she was under my care,—no, not until you were responsible for her. Upon my word, sir, you’ve fulfilled your charge very badly,—what excuse have you to give to me?”

“You let her grow up into a wild thing,—the blame’s with you as much as with me,—and as to responsibility, she’s my wife even if she is your daughter.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Warrener, relapsing into his customary mildness, “it won’t help matters if you and I start wrangling. But tell me now, what makes you so certain she has gone with this ... his name positively sticks in my throat,—this shepherd fellow?”

“What makes me so certain? What do you suppose I have been doing these three days?” said Calladine querulously. “What do you suppose my state of mind has been? I knew Clare was safe, in one sense, I know she was with Lovel. Yes. His wife came to Starvecrow after him; she had guessed where he was going. Oh, a pretty interview I had with her—I have Clare to thank for that. She came crying to the door, and Mrs. Quince let her in, so Mrs. Quince, at least, guesses the whole story. She brought the woman up to my room, and left her alone with me, and I saw her smirk as she went out of the door. A pretty business.... She cried to me, this woman; she sat in Clare’s chair and cried. She owned up—a long tale—how she had got Lovel to marry her and how her child was neither his child nor his brother’s; I really don’t know what else—a long tale. She talked very extravagantly—said she was dying for love of him—and how he had never touched her,—a lot of nauseous detail. She kept on saying that he was decent,—decent, decent to her,—that kept on coming back,—and that she was sorry now,—she was being punished for what she had done. He was civil to her always, she said, but as cold as winter, and now he had gone. There was nothing left for her now, she said, but to stay looking after his people,—his old mother and his mad brother,—that was her idea of making amends. We went out together and looked all over the Downs for Clare and Lovel; she sobbed and cried all the time. She wanted me to raise a hue and cry, to put the police on their trail, but of course I would not do that. ‘If they want to go,’ I said, ‘let them go with as little noise as possible.’ But I looked for them myself, and if I had found them I would have besought Clare to come back. She was with me nearly all the time, this dreadful woman. I kept sending her away, but half an hour later there she was again. She brought her child with her, wrapped in a shawl. She said she felt like drowning it,—a shocking thing to hear a woman say. Saxon fair it was, and I believed her when she told me Lovel had nothing to do with it. She has been with me almost uninterruptedly now for three days; I kept her at Starvecrow because I didn’t want the story trumpeted over the whole village. Certain that she has gone with Lovel, indeed! Of course I am certain. Besides, I found the tracks of two persons’ feet in the snow—a man’s and a woman’s.”

“Well, why didn’t you follow those tracks?” asked Mr. Warrener, who had been staring at Calladine all through his recital.

“You may be sure I did, and they led me to the top of the Downs,—knee-deep in some places. Then snow began to fall again and the tracks were blotted out,—I lost them,—I fancied the Downs and the snow were conspiring against me with Clare and Lovel. Lovel’s wife grew frantic when she saw the tracks blurring; she began running round and round in a senseless circle. There was I, up on the height with that common woman, she having lost her husband and I having lost my wife. That is what your daughter, sir, has exposed me to.”

“Is that all you think about?” said Mr. Warrener.

“Heaven knows it isn’t!” cried Calladine. “I think horrible things,—I think of Clare suffering from the cold, and then I think of her close with Lovel, and upon my soul I don’t know whether to wish her dead or alive. You don’t understand, Mr. Warrener, the passion they have for one another. I suppose I knew it, a long way back, but I shut my mind to it. It seemed preposterous. I put it away. And then, when it began to come closer, I did not know how to fight it,—I knew how strong it was. And Clare was like a little trapped thing all the while; gentle to me, but always looking out of the window. I tried to tame her; she pretended to be quite tame, but all the while she kept that poised look about her,—ready to spread her wings.”