Part 15 (1/2)

”I should go to sleep.”

The idea seemed grateful: she thought of her room with the high ceiling, the foreign chill to the cheeks of afternoon pillows, the delicious crime of crossing silk-clad ankles over the rucked-back quilt and the slow recession of fact down a long tunnel till the windows stretched and faded. But, pulling at her fingers, she said impatiently: ”But I want to begin on something; I do think, Laurence, you might understand. There must be some way for me to begin. You keep on looking into rooms where I am with silent contempt-what do you think I am for?

He leaned against the frame of his doorway, looking at her with surprise and a degree of humanity. Today three weeks, term would have begun again; he did for a moment stretch to an effort of comprehension: there was nothing for her to go on with. The vacancy, more than negative to him, which had succeeded Marda made the natural claims of a life on his young cousin. With that concession to fancy one makes for the doomed or the very weak, he suggested she should go on with her German. He gave her two grammars, a dictionary, and a novel of Mann's, which she took from him doubtfully. When he was back at his table, his door ajar, she went across stealthily to the door opposite.

”There's a wasp in there,” called out Laurence at once.

”Oh, I just thought I'd see if ...”

But she went downstairs, defeated, forgetting her suitcase.

She had not seen Gerald again this morning, though all contracted with apprehension she had waited in Mrs. Fogarty's drawing-room-the multiplicity of the photographed young men's faces, candid and vigorous, further appalling her. An orderly had come down with a note from barracks. The crested envelope, handed in with its air of a claim on her, had austerity like some limb of an inst.i.tution. She lost her last sense of Gerald, she felt committed. Fumbling open the envelope, asking: ”What have I done?” she wondered what had become of that last lonely disk of cuc.u.mber on the plate. After ”My darling darling”-she was reprieved, provisionally; Mrs. Fogarty coming in in a wrapper-greatly worn, she said, after last night's gaiety-had insisted that if she would not drink port she must drink milk-it was a long morning-and eat some of this nice sponge cake.

And: ”know who has been breaking hearts!” said Mrs. Fogarty, knifing the sponge cake which was moist and eggy and ”gave” at the knife deliciously, like an eiderdown.

The anteroom chairs, now looking at Lois askance, knew also. What she had done stretched everywhere, like a net. If she had taken a life, the simplest objects could not more have been tinged with consequence. The graded elephants on the bookcase were all fatality. She went into her room hurriedly. ”All the same,” she thought, looking round with patronage at the virginal wallpaper, ”it is something definite.” And with curiosity, with complicity almost, she looked at herself in the gla.s.s.

Gerald's straight, round writing had, to her imagination, a queer totter, like someone running for life in tight shoes.

-I have so much to say to you, though there is all time now there seems to be no time. Lois, when I am with you you make me awfully dumb with your darling wide-awake eyes, and when we are apart you seem so close I feel you must understand, so why try to explain when I am so stupid? So I won't try to say what I feel; all that matters is that you are beautifully beautiful. Sometimes, till now, I have felt you must think me awfully stupid and introspective and dull; I have wondered so much what you did think about all the time: it seems unbelievable now that I am really to know. You seemed so complicated, it was cheek to a.s.sociate you with the sort of person that I am, and now you are lovely and simple and all mine. Last night doesn't seem like part of my life at all-I can't believe it was me who danced and drank whiskies and tinkered about with the gramophone-and yet it's the reallest thing ever. And what I am doing this morning seems so important-although it keeps me away from you-because I am doing it for you. It is awful to think of you here in Clonmore and not to be able to get to you, and yet it is wonderful to think of you waiting, and of who you are waiting for being me. Lois, your dear cold arms were so lovely, I mustn't think of that now. All your life I am going to keep you and wrap you up and protect you and never let you be cold again. It is awful to think you have ever been lonely and sad-you are so brave, you know, and I never guessed-and yet I am almost glad of that, because it makes some reason for me. Darling, I kissed the thought of you and feel so terribly humble. I must not write more now. If you can, leave a letter for me at the Fogartys'. Does she guess? I thought perhaps you might like to confide in her. But of course I will tell n.o.body, as you wish. Goodbye, my most beautiful woman; I cannot write how I love you.

GERALD.

Folding the sheets again in their order, she thought: ”It is you who are beautiful,” and later, ”If this thing is so perfect to anyone, can one be wrong?” An escape of suns.h.i.+ne, penetrating the pale sky in the southwest, altered the room like a revelation. Noiselessly, a sweet pea moulted its petals on to the writing-table, leaving a bare pistil. The pink b.u.t.terfly flowers, transparently balancing, were shadowed faintly with blue as by an intuition of death. Lois bowed forward her forehead against the edge of the table.

Steps in the anteroom: she slipped the letter under the blotter and turned round consciously. ”I hear you are back,” said Lady Naylor, entering. ”I hear it was such a success that they broke the gramophone. Now I want to hear all about it.” She sat down.

”Well, to begin with-”

”One moment-have you unpacked your frock?”

”Oh! I left my suitcase ... I went up to Laurence to borrow a German grammar.”

”Oh, I shouldn't go on with German,” said Lady Naylor, ”it still offends so many people; Italian is prettier and more practical. I could lend you II Piccolo Mondo Antico, or Dante-However, tell me about the dance.”

”Well, first of all-”

”-By the way, I've just heard from Marda. She has arrived quite safely, I'm glad to say. She says Kent is dull, which I daresay it would be, but of course she is glad to be with Leslie.”

”Did she say so?”

”She naturally would be. You can read it; I've got the letter downstairs- Who broke the gramophone? I hope you weren't anywhere round when it happened: these things are always remembered. Were the Raltes there? Did they look pretty? I wonder, really, at their mother allowing them; she professes to have them in such control. However, I daresay this will be the last of these dances.”

”Oh, why?”

”If you had heard what we heard at the Trents' ... There was a man there from Kerry. He really made us feel quite uncomfortable. Though, as your uncle said afterwards, one knows what the Trents' friends are: everything happens to them. However- were the Vermonts there? She would be quite in her element. And Mr. Armstrong? I hear he and Livvy were seen in Cork together at the Imperial, by Mrs. Foxe-O'Connor. And the young man who was here to lunch, who talked so much-in the armoured car- oh-Lesworth.”

”Yes, he was there.”

”I am surprised at them all having time,” said Lady Naylor. ”However, if they danced more and interfered less, I daresay there would be less trouble in the country. It appears that in Kerry ...” Her voice became colder with inattention and dwindled away. Lois was certain she eyed the pink blotter. This zigzag approach to Gerald, this ultimate vagueness, were sinister. Lady Naylor, after some moments of odd and oppressive silence, observed that the sweet peas were dying. ”The water must be unhealthy, it's going green. In fact, all the flowers need doing. Perhaps after tea- How would you like to go to a school of art?”

”Marvellous,” said Lois, after reflection.

”Francie was very much struck by your drawings. And Marda said you certainly needed an interest.”

”Oh. Was she discussing me?”

”We were all saying that girls needed interests and I thought she seemed to agree particularly. She has not made much of her life so far-though of course if she marries Leslie-and I've always thought that music or drawing, or writing a little, or organisation of some kind-”

”Did Marda say what she thought of my drawings?”

”She seemed to think they were nice- A quarter to five!” exclaimed Lady Naylor reproachfully. ”The tea will be cold ... You look sleepy, Lois. Did you hear the Montmorencys are going to build a bungalow?”

”Here?”

”Don't be silly- Besides, according to that friend of the Trents, it would be blown up or burnt in a month or two. Certainly,” said Lady Naylor looking out at the sky, ”I call this a tiring day.” She got up with a sigh.

Later that evening Lois, half way up to the garden with scissors and basket, overtook Mr. Montmorency walking all by himself up the shrubbery path. Pulling leaves from the laurels, he shredded them carefully.

”I hear,” he said, as she came up alongside, ”you are taking up German?”

”Unless Italian might be more practical ... I hear you are going to build a bungalow.”

”Oh, I don't know; that is chiefly Francie's idea.” They walked in silence, she dragging her basket against the laurels. They had not been alone since the drive from Mount Isabel. She remembered how once she had hoped so much, and how he had been infinitely disobliging. Now she had a tenderness for him, devoid of attraction, as though they had been a couple of widows.

”No stairs would be nice.”

”But it would be certain to have other disadvantages.”

”Apparently,” she said with effrontery, ”Marda arrived quite safely.”

”It should be a surprise to us all,” said Hugo, sarcastic, ”that she has not fallen out of the train. Even she cannot think of anything better to say to a hostess. And the information, I always feel certain, leaves hostesses cold. Once one is clear of their gates, interest ends with responsibility.”

”And she says Kent is dull.”

”I cannot believe she finds it so.”

”She is frightfully philosophic. Perhaps she was dull here.” (She thought: ”Even now, shall we never be natural?”) ”Have you seen her letter?”

”No ... have you?”

”No, your aunt has lost it.”

He pushed open the door, then followed her into the garden which, deep in its walls, seemed impossibly large, for one could not see to the end of it: it was crossed by espaliers and crowded with apple trees. Down the borders, the September yellows and scarlets were metallic in unsunny light. Dahlias, orange and wine-coloured, blazed and gloomed. He turned down one path, she kept to the other; they silently parted. Here she had come with Marda-never with Gerald- they had sat on the green seat, pressed blisters out of the paint and spat out their plum stones into the box border opposite. Entered today, the usual breath of the garden was cold to her face. The branches were quiet as though in anxiety, the flowers appeared to be clamouring vainly, forgotten. Coming to the hedge of sweet pea she began at the purple end, diligently. ”Though myself,” she could not help saying, ”I do not care for purple sweet pea.”

When she reached up to the top of the hedge her sleeves fell back from her arms and she thought of Gerald. She felt him looking at her through the thinning stems. The sweet peas were practically over, and indeed she was glad, she thought, snipping and tugging with blunt garden scissors. In yesterday's dusk, the square with its flitter of leaves had been all autumnal; smoke was blue in the air and, later, the dark where they kissed had a sharp intimation of autumn. She loved in autumn a stronger, more shadowy keen spring, sweet shocks of goodbye, transition. Summer meanwhile stayed on inside these walls, forgotten.