The fact that nobody except Harris would ever know the truth, pleased him. Courage, so carefully disguised as something else, possessed a special poignancy. Irony made perfect. It occured to him with peculiar inner laughter that those who spoke with such hatred about death, were even bigger fools than men who bleated about the horrors of war without having tasted them. Nothing should be condemned without fair trial.

  Again he began thinking about the details. There would be no second chance; it had to be right the first time. He picked some coins from the top of the dressing table. Enough money to scatter on the ground. He looked at his watch. No, he would leave breaking it till later. If there was any broken glass, the bits should be there to be found. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and looked away; he suddenly realised that he did not want to see his face. It had looked ordinary and unchanged. A young man, smoking a cigar, picking up money, considering when to break a watch. A man of almost thirty who might live till old age. For a moment he felt diminished and pitiable. But the feeling passed; reality—his special reality, returned. It had nothing to do with the young man in the mirror but was somewhere else, hidden deep within him. He covered the mirror and sat down. His world closed in again and he was safe. He slipped the watch into his waistcoast pocket. Time wasn’t in those cogs and wheels any more, or in the arithmetical progression of years and seasons; time was the beating of his heart. Time began and ended there.

  A little later, he wrote two brief letters: both for Harris’s use—one to be sent to Dick Lambert, in which Clinton told his friend that because he intended to live with Theresa, he would not be able to keep Harris in his employment, since she disliked the man. Clinton asked whether Dick could give him a position. The second letter was a simple statement that he intended to kill himself; and this was only to be used in the unlikely event of an arrest being made; otherwise it should be burnt.

  Two hours before dawn, Clinton loaded a revolver in the gun-room and went out into the garden. Behind some bushes, he rubbed his torn coat on the muddy grass and then put it on. He also smeared mud on his knees. Harris was leading out his horse as Clinton arrived. The mare’s hooves were muffled with sacking. The valet’s face was the colour of candle wax and his lips were drawn tight. Clinton handed him the letters; he had already explained what would be in them. Neither of them spoke. Out of sight of the house, Clinton bent down and removed the sacking before mounting.

  *

  A grey blear of light was growing in the east when Harris reached the point which Clinton had described to him barely eight hours earlier in his room. A place where a rough track skirted the beech woods near the domain park wall. From a distance Harris saw the mare standing alone, tethered to a tree. He had drunk half a bottle of brandy but still felt stone sober. Another two hundred yards and he found his master’s body. He knelt down on the black slippery leaves and choked back a mouthful of regurgitated brandy. There was blood all down Clinton’s coatsleeve as well as trickling from his head. He had shot himself in the arm first. Some money was on the ground a few feet away and his watch was hanging from his pocket on its chain; the glass was cracked and the hands pointed to a few minutes after nine o’clock—still three hours in the future. Choking back retching sobs of shock, he took the revolver from Clinton’s hand and pocketed it. Then he swung the blackthorn he had brought with him, hard down on the dead staring face. He rained other blows on the chest and legs.

  Then he turned and ran. Gasping in deep gulps of the splintering air, he stumbled to where the horse was tethered. The mare whinnied at his approach. This too was agony to him. He freed her and then hit her hard across the quarters with the stick. When she still stood confused, he shouted and then struck out wildly until the animal stampeded into the woods, snorting with pain and fear. Afterwards Harris dragged his way homewards. The blackthorn he threw down in a weed-choked ditch, and the revolver he flung far out into the heronry pond. The mud gripped at his boots as he walked on. No birds called to break the labour of his breath as he blundered on towards the back of the house. Above him in the misty sky, the moon was a milky disc. Twigs cracked under his feet like brittle bones; his flesh shuddered. The dark stain on his hand where he had held the gun, was blood.

  *

  Shortly after half-past ten the mare came limping home. Harris told the coachman that Lord Ardmore had gone out for his morning ride at about seven o’clock as usual. Alarm spread rapidly. The search began.

  46

  First there was the despairing ever-present craving to see and touch him; a longing sharper than the most exacting physical pain, and behind it, the knowledge that nowhere, never again, would he enter a room, smile at her or speak. And every other living face, every door that opened to a hand not his, every alien voice, was a violation to her, shouting out: not him, not his. Theresa’s world was filled by his absence. Her loss closed in around her like a dense cloud.

  Weeks later: a floating emptiness as if she too did not exist. After that, thoughts; and one which it seemed would never leave her in peace—he had gone out hopefully, thinking of the years to come and had been brutally cut down. And because fate had held out this second chance, only to dash it aside, everything that had gone before became a savage joke to her.

  This too had passed. To die hoping was surely better than to die in despair. Yet this crumb of comfort also proved ephemeral. Already she knew that one day she would have to find out everything she could about the last days of his life. She never doubted the truth of the coroner’s verdict of murder by persons unknown; her fears were all concerned with the state of mind that had caused Clinton to stay behind and take the risks that had killed him. Time and again she was haunted by memories of his strange volte face during her last hours with him. Without his voice and presence to persuade her, she no longer knew whether she had let her own hopes deceive her. What else could he have intended by setting in hand clearances, than a deliberate tempting of fate? Why, if he had ever believed in their future, had he ridden alone each morning, unarmed, and knowing how much he was hated?

  *

  Apart from Kilkreen itself, Dublin was the last place on earth Theresa would have wished to return to, but when she learned that Harris had re-enlisted with the 15th Hussars at Richmond Barracks, she had had no choice in the matter.

  A fresh spring day when even the grey Georgian streets looked vivid. A day for open windows, walks, and the first airing of summer clothes. Voices and street sounds carried clearly; in squares and crescents buds on the trees were swelling, and here and there, splashes of new green.

  The man was summoned for her from the Riding School, and from the moment she could see his face distinctly, she sensed the hatred his civility concealed. Standing stiffly in his blue uniform, answering each question with cutting brevity, his manner said more eloquently than words: you ruined him, how dare you come to me for consolation. He told her next to nothing; it had never been his habit, he said, to try to guess Lord Ardmore’s thoughts. Couldn’t he at least tell her the things Lord Ardmore had said? Had he seemed to be aware of the dangers involved in the evictions? Harris smiled to himself and kicked at the gravel with a glistening boot.

  ‘He said they hadn’t the guts to shoot crows. That’s how worried he was.’

  Reassured, she murmured:

  ‘Did it surprise you that he stayed in Ireland after the trial?’

  ‘Surprise me?’ The man’s derision was blatant. ‘Did you think he’d run off and hide himself?’

  ‘He wanted to show people that he didn’t care? Is that why he went to Kilkreen?’

  The eagerness in her voice seemed to confuse him. He said harshly:

  ‘What’s the use? Talking won’t bring him back.’

  ‘But what do you think?’ she insisted.

  He had become very pale, and was looking at her as if seeing something else. His lips moved but no sound came.

  ‘That day,’ she murmured, ‘why did he go out without a gun?’

  ‘Perhaps in case he got ideas,’ Harris blurted out, suddenly beside himself. ‘Wasn’t the coroner’s verdict enough for you? What more do you want?’

  ‘Why are you so angry?’ she asked, appalled by his sudden fury.

  ‘Didn’t I find him?’ he muttered. ‘You think I want reminding?’

  ‘Won’t it help us both if you tell me everything?’

  As he moved away, the sun caught the tiny brass buttons on his coat, dazzling her.

  ‘Go away,’ he said weakly. Then drawing in a deep breath: ‘He didn’t go round begging people to have a shot at him … he knew better than that. He wasn’t any different from any other time … just himself … that’s all.’ His voice had risen again, and his fists were so tightly clenched that the knuckled shone white. ‘Another thing … he gave me notice two days before—told me he was going abroad with you, so I’d have to shift for myself. Said you couldn’t abide me. That good enough for your ladyship?’

  Some sparrows that had been chirping and fluttering in the dust at the edge of the parade ground, rose suddenly at the sound of his voice. Small white clouds passed overhead. Some officers were laughing on the steps of the mess.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say at last. ‘You cared for him … found him dead … I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve no cause.’

  ‘I’d like you to have something of his.’ Because she had never seen his dead body, the things that had been with him at the time of his death were especially precious to her. She reached inside her mantle and held our Clinton’s watch. Harris froze and then turned away. Seeing his shoulders shaking, Theresa thought her offer had moved him to tears.

  ‘Please take it,’ she repeated softly.

  He faced her again, moving very slowly. His cheeks were wet, but his lips were drawn back in a grimace of agonised resentment. She drew back in dismay, not understanding what she had done.

  ‘Tell me,’ she faltered, as he began to walk away. She moved after him quickly.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he shouted; but she still followed.

  ‘What have I done?’ she implored.

  He stopped, and gazed at her in stupefaction as she drew level.

  ‘What have you done?’ A breathless moan left his lips. He moved a step closer, his face darkened by the blood rising in it. ‘Killed him … killed him, d’you hear?’ He broke off, seized by the most frightful bewilderment. ‘God forgive me.’

  Theresa felt herself swaying. Panic was tightening in her chest, squeezing out her breath.

  ‘He was murdered,’ she stammered. ‘You said so …’

  ‘Yes, I said so,’ he repeated with frenzied eagerness.

  Shock hit her like a falling wall, hurtling down on her. Either she or the whole world was disintegrating. Beyond any doubt she knew that he had killed himself. She wanted to scream, to run away and get out of herself, but she was rooted, held in suspension. She had no idea how long she stood there. At last she heard a voice coming from somewhere else; a thin wild voice; hers.

  ‘Don’t lie any more. I have to know.’

  As if returning to herself, she took in the barrack square and the man standing in silence. Rage caught her by the throat. She grasped his arm with all her strength.

  ‘Tell me …You’ve got to tell me.’

  As he pulled away, the watch was knocked from her other hand. He stared a moment, then bent down and closed his fingers round it.

  ‘Why?’ he moaned, ‘why did you show me that thing?’

  His torment of remorse reached her through the cloud of her own distress.

  ‘It can’t matter to him what you tell me. Nothing can hurt him now.’ He gave her back the watch but still said nothing. She said gently: ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  Slowly he raised his eyes.

  ‘He broke it before he killed himself … to make it look as though he’d struggled for his life. I found money scattered on the ground. His clothes were torn.’ Tears spilled over his lashes and his breath came harshly. ‘But the worst … was … He fired into his arm first, so they’d never doubt murder.’ He looked at her in anguish. ‘Think of going on after that … the pain, and then …’ Harris raised a hand to his head, held it there a second before letting it fall. ‘He went through all that to spare your feelings. And I told you.’ He crashed a clenched fist to his forehead. ‘I told you.’

  A dream; she was inside it and yet watching, seeing clearly: white clouds, men leaving the Riding School, her shadow moving as she began to walk. The shock of his death; the moment of it; his last deliberate acts pressed in on her, filled the barrack square. She heard the first shot; saw him raise the gun again. In agony she thought: I could have stayed with him; could have saved him. His happiness on her last day at Kilkreen seared her now that she knew the reason for it. Even then he had already decided. Already chosen death. Her skin was cold and she was shivering. So little could have spared him: their child’s birth, his uncle’s help, her father’s pity. And how it was that none of these things had happened, she could not tell. Nor why they had ever met, and loved each other, and suffered. What purpose had there been? What purpose? Each word, each kiss, each day together had served one end, to lead him on to death.

  She had reached the gateway, and saw the sentry in the street stamp past, spurs ringing on the stones, Clinton had come towards that arch, had welcomed her a dozen feet away, the guard had saluted. A man respected, honoured, confident and free. She saw Harris watching her, heard him say:

  ‘You musn’t go. Please don’t go.’ She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘You should be with someone.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid of that,’ she said quietly.

  They stood in silence as the sentry tramped back again, the sun flashing on his scabbard. She wondered: if I had known how it would finish, would I ever have loved him? And even as the question formed she knew the answer. He had risked death too often to fear it as others would. She had known his pride; had known.

  She felt the broken watch heavy in her hand. She turned.

  ‘You say he did those things to spare me?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She thought of the dawn. The silent house. Her man leaving it to die; still with thought of her as he rode to the place. Those acts before the end had been his last gifts to her—so she could think only chance robbed them; could still dream and hope when all his own had gone. She knew another day might usher back despair, but at that moment, in the sunshine, beside a barrack square, new faith lived in her. With love—the purpose could transcend the fate it led to. The end be changed utterly in its fulfilment.

  Harris was still looking at her anxiously. She touched his sleeve.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll survive.’ The ghost of a smile moved her lips.

  She stood still a moment longer, remembering; then launched herself, like a swimmer leaving the shore.

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2013

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  All rights reserved

  © Tim Jeal, 1979

  Preface to the 2013 Edition © Tim Jeal, 2013

  The right of Tim Jeal to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–30396–0

 

 

  Tim Jeal, A Marriage of Convenience

 

 

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