Constance sat down. She looked at Acland closely. Neither his face nor his hands had moved. His eyes remained fixed upon the window. Constance gave a small gesture of distress.
“Do you hear me, Acland? I believe that you do. Why do you try to hide from me? Why do you close yourself off? You cannot succeed. We are too close for that. I know you, Acland. Everything you’ve ever done, everything you’ve ever been—I see it. I look down to the bottom of your soul. I hear your thoughts. I watch your dreams. You cannot hide from me, and I cannot hide from you. Please, Acland—can’t you understand? I don’t judge you—I could not judge you. It would be like judging myself. If you have done bad things, seen bad things, I have too! I know how it feels to want to die. Please tell me—was it the war, Acland, that made you like this? Or was it something else, something you did a long time ago, and the guilt crept up on you, and up on you, over the years? Guilt can do that, I think. Oh, Acland, please tell me. I find this so very hard—”
Constance broke off. She waited, her hands trembling slightly. The silence of the room rested upon her. Acland remained immobile in his chair.
“Won’t you look at me, just once? I know you want to look at me,” Constance said, and then, when Acland still did not turn, she gave a small sigh. She reached up and began to unpin her hair.
“Very well,” she went on in a low voice. “I don’t care. I shall not give up. Watch, Acland, and listen. I shall show myself to you. I want to see how dead you really are.”
She shook her head so that her hair fell about her shoulders. Then, in a slow and careful way, as if she were alone in the room, she began to unbutton her dress. A crucifix, one of Stern’s presents, given on a whim by an irreligious man to an irreligious wife, swung between her breasts. Constance pressed her hands against it, then rested them against her bared skin. She gave a small shiver, a small sigh.
“Oh, I am quite alone now. No one sees me. No one watches me. I hate to be watched. It is so good to be quiet, to be secret with myself. Do you know, it makes me sad sometimes, to lie, to act, to pretend to the world? And when it does, this is what I do. I come here. I come inside this little circle. Ah, I see it now! There it is.”
Stretching out her foot, she drew a small arc upon the floor. “You see, Acland? An invisible circle. You can see it; I can see it. No one else can. A circle with walls of glass. They are very strong. No one can touch us in here, and when we are inside it, we can do anything we like, everything we like. Shall I show you what we do? We touch the darkness away.
“Listen,” Constance said, and she closed her eyes, because she was sure, now, that Acland saw her; she could feel his vision brush against her skin. “Listen,” she said, “and I will tell you the story of Constance and her lover. His name is Acland. He is the only man she has ever loved or ever wanted. This is how he is: He is her enemy and her friend, her brother and her deliverer. Which of his stories would you like? There are so many to choose from. He comes to her in so many guises. When she was a child, he came to her in the shape of a bird, a great white bird—such a free creature! Then he lifted her upon his wings and they surveyed all the world together. That is one story—I could tell you that. Or I could tell you how he came as a man—and he did that very often. Oh, night after night. He would touch her: first her hair—he loved her hair—then her throat, then her breasts, then her thighs. Once, they lay down together in the snow, and he made her body weep. Once they went to the woods, and once they lay down on the stairs, and once they hid—yes, they hid together, in a closet, pressed up against the coats in the dark, and his hands were very violent. That time when she touched him, he was as hard as a rod, and when she tasted him, he tasted like a god.
“That was how it was. That
is
how it was.” Constance halted. She gave a small moan. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself. “It went on and on, for such a long time—year after year, whole centuries. It was unbearable to be apart. It felt like dying, to be apart. But then, not so very long ago, a terrible thing happened. He came to her room one night. He held her in his arms, and he said he had come back from the dead. He told her how it felt, to cross that boundary. Such a secret! He opened his shirt, and he showed her the wound he had, just below the heart. Then he made a ring of his hair, his bright hair, and he bound it about her wedding finger. She was his bride, and also his widow. She knew he would leave, you see. And he did leave. He stayed with her all night long, and then he left, when it was morning.
“
You
left.” Constance lifted her head. She opened her eyes and looked directly at Acland.
“You left. You went away. I thought you would never come back. I thought that was the end—my punishment and my sentence, always to be alone.” She paused. “If it is, I can survive in my way. I shan’t die—not directly. But I should like to be sure—whether you have gone or whether you could come back. Will you keep very still? I need to touch you.”
Constance rose as she finished this story. Her feet were unsteady; the room made her dizzy. She took one step forward, then another. Bending toward him, she looked into Acland’s eyes. She unbuttoned the front of his shirt, then slipped her small hand beneath it. The scar there was familiar to her; she rested her hand against it.
What I wanted was to be a sorceress [she writes]. I wanted to be Acland’s very own Circe. So I told him our love story and I showed him myself. If he didn’t respond to my words, then he might to my body. Men are like that. I think they like my skin, and also my stories.
My lips were so close to his they were almost touching. Acland was not so very dead—I could see that. I could have touched him, to prove my point—and I wanted to touch him, very much. But I wouldn’t. I was determined he would give me a sign, and—in the end—he did.
He lifted his hand. I thought he was going to touch my breast—I think he wanted to touch my breast. But he didn’t. He touched that crucifix Montague gave me instead. His palm brushed my skin. He held the cross in his hand very tight. He could feel my heart beat, I think.
I waited. The corners of the room whispered to us, and the air brushed us, and then, I decided. It was enough. I was almost glad he did not touch me! I don’t want us—ever—to be ordinary. I went on to the next scene. All those facts he needed to know. There was only a little time left, and I had to be quick. I had to be practical.
I buttoned up my dress. I sat down on my chair. Then, when I was quite sure he was looking at me, and not through me, I dealt out the facts, slap, slap, like a deck of cards. Boy; Jenna; Jenna and the baby. (I told him I would have cared for his baby.) I explained about the money that his father owes to Montague. I explained how Montague wants Winterscombe. I stopped then—just for an instant. I had to. Acland’s face was so very white.
I thought, perhaps he is guilty. Perhaps he feels guilty about Jenna and the baby—he might. I wasn’t sure, then, what to say. I think I understand the principle of guilt, but I am not sure I ever feel it. I can’t manufacture it—I couldn’t, not even when Boy died. That part of me was left out when I was made. But Acland is different—I know that. So I tried to explain: Guilt is a useless emotion. He couldn’t undo the past, I said, but it was in his power, if he wanted, to influence the future.
I stood up, and I walked to the window. I pointed at the gardens and the lake and the wood. I said that I wasn’t sure if these mattered to him, or if he cared for them at all—but if he did, if he wanted to preserve them for himself, or his brothers or any children he might have, they could be his. Even now. Montague might have set his heart on this place, I said, but even Montague could be outmaneuvered, if Acland would only listen to me. All Acland needed to save his home was a rich wife—and who, I added, was richer and more available than Jane Conyngham?
I sat down again. I counted off all Jane’s advantages. “Jane,” I said, “is excessively rich. Why, she could pay off your father’s debts, save Winterscombe, and scarcely notice the difference!” I reminded him he owed Jane a debt. After all, she did save his life, and she has nursed him with more patience than I care to think of.
I pointed out to him that Jane loved him, and had for years. I think that surprised him—Acland can be oddly obtuse. Since she loved him so much, I said, to marry her would be one way of repaying the debt he owed her. And then, if he found my scheme too mercenary, no doubt he could hit on a way to repay the money. He is not without talents!
I thought Acland looked unconvinced. His face was so set, and his eyes so cold. So I tried even harder. I said I could quite understand that he might not find the idea very attractive, but, after all, Jane would make an excellent wife, and in time an exemplary mother.
“Think, Acland,” I said. “She is clever. She is brave. You have many things in common. She has seen the war at first hand. You like the same music. You even like the same books.
“Of course,” I went on (and here I was a little sly), “there are certain imbalances. I cannot imagine you find Jane very exciting. But if, after some years of married life, you felt in need of new stimulus—well, you might not abstain, but I’m sure you would be discreet. You would never hurt Jane, as another man, with fewer scruples, might. So, you see—you could make her an ideal husband!”
I thought Acland seemed to be growing tired by this time—I could see the strain in his face—and I thought to myself: He won’t do this; he’ll choose the razor. I rushed on to the end.
“Finally,” I said, “I have left out one thing. Just a small one. If you married, and lived here, then I might see you from time to time. After all, if I live in Peel’s house—and I shall—you and I will be neighbours. We could—”
I stopped then. I didn’t want to say all the things we could do. I know Acland knows them. I know he dreams them. I think I expected him to speak then. When he did not, it made me anxious. My hands jerked about, and my gestures would not stay still. I tried to explain—that that was how I wanted us to be, near and far, distant and close, both at the same time. We mustn’t ever touch, I said, but we could speculate. That kind of love is the best kind; it always stays perfect.
It made me angry to have to explain, and spell it out in this dull way. I know he understands this, and always has. I know he sees the things I see.
Our secret love. Being angry made me shake a little. I could smell the anger burning. I knew I had to be quick. It was time to give him his two presents. I went across to his chair, and I knelt down beside him. I had the razor in my pocket and I took it out. I held it very tight, in my right hand.
I leaned forward. I looked him in the eyes. I felt so glittery! I rested my lips against his. I tasted him. I let him kiss me.
“Look,” I said. “Here are your presents. Death in my right hand and life in my left. Choose, Acland.”
Acland looked at the razor for a long long time. It seemed to surprise him, though he must have known I’d bring it to him. To help him decide, I opened it up. It was very sharp. I drew the blade across my palm. It sliced the skin open. All the blood came gushing out. I held my hand out to him. I said:
“Taste it, Acland. I know you are familiar with the taste and the smell. There. That is the taste of the way out. Is that what you want? Because if it is, take it. I’ll help you, I promise you that. Your wrists or your throat. I’ll help you guide it, and I’ll wait here until it’s over. The door is locked. I promise you I won’t scream or cry out—I’m not like other women. I know I can do this, and if you want me to, I will. Choose, Acland.”
His fingers closed around my wrist. I think he jerked my hand. The razor flew up into the air. It arced across the room. It came to rest on the Turkey carpet, just at the foot of a cabinet.
Acland said: “You are an extraordinary woman. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met.”
I think he said that. After he had chosen.
I picked the razor up. I put it back in my pocket. That was that. I wanted to tell Acland that the woman he loved wasn’t so extraordinary. She was … an accident. A little freak. Someone with too many pieces crammed in the wrong way. She had been born like that—or maybe she was made to become like that. I didn’t say it, though; I knew I did not need to. Acland loves me for my opposites and my variety. He knows I can be every woman, and any woman—just for him. I can be his little virgin or his little whore, his little saint, his little sinner. And he is my impossible man, who has been to death and back, who would kill on my behalf. Acland, my deliverer—there is no end to his daring!
I walked across to the door, and I put my hand on the light switch. Outside it was growing dark, and the room was dusky. I switched on the light. I switched it off again.
“Look, Acland,” I said. “Here I am. And here I am not.” Then I left him.
I went back to Montague. We made love, rather roughly. I liked that. I like to be … manhandled, occasionally. I cannot come, still, if he’s inside me. I asked him, in a careless way, if he’d had other women like that—and he said yes, one or two; it could take time; I mustn’t let it worry me.
He was half an inch away from pity, I thought, and I didn’t like that. Next time I shall pretend, I think; I shall give him an ecstasy.
“Did you read to Acland?” he said, when he was changing for dinner.
I said I had. I said the book was The Antiquary. I said the plot was incomprehensible, but I read very beautifully.
It was past five o’clock when Constance left Acland’s room. It was an hour later when Jane went in to him. The nurse, thinking he slept, had left him in his wheelchair in the bay window. Jane, seeing his eyes were open, paused in the doorway. She thought:
He is looking at the war.
Her return from London had been as swift as she could make it. Running into the hall below, she had glimpsed Gwen sitting alone in the drawing room. She sat in the twilight, her head stooped, her attitude one of grief and misery.