Kind Are Her Answers (6 page)

“No,” he said. “It’s all right. She’s fallen asleep.”

He saw her hands, which she had clenched tightly together, relax. She nodded her head. “It was only just—when you went over quickly like that. I thought something might have happened when I was out of the room.”

“That did cross my mind for a moment. But there shouldn’t be any further trouble to-night. If she can sleep … How long has she been sleeping, by the way?”

She looked up quickly. “It can’t have been for more than a very few minutes. Just since I went out.” She was twisting a little pearl ring on her finger. Women slept in their pearls, he remembered, to keep them warm. He tried to think of something professional and intelligent to say, but could only try to remember the colour of her eyes, which were hidden, and see that her lashes were tinged with the dark red of her hair and that her lids were transparent and faintly veined with blue.

“Well,” he said at last, “you needn’t worry now.”

“No.” She played with the knot in the silk cord of her gown. They had stopped in the hall, half-way to the door; he could not remember how long they had been standing there.

He forced himself to go on talking. “Do you get many of these disturbed nights? You ought to make them up in the morning.”

“Oh, I’m all right. I can sleep on if I want to. But you can’t, can you? I’m sorry. You look tired.”

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes before he was ready. He would have to get away, to say something, he thought; but he did neither. It was she who, without seeming to have moved, was suddenly close to him. She looked up into his face with a cloudy smile.

It did not seem to him that anything new had happened when he took her in his arms. He had known how her eyelids would feel: cool and fragile, and the soft brush of her lashes against his lips.

This is insanity, he thought, half-awaking; and gripped her with all his strength because in a moment she would try to go away. But her firm silky shape only moulded itself more closely to his hold, and one of her arms slipped round his neck. Her mouth was still smiling, distant and dreamlike, as he closed it with his own.

In the years of his marriage, and even before, he had forgotten what it was to be made welcome without reserve. A light cracked behind his eyes. He did not know that he had lifted her almost off her feet. She clung about his neck, her head falling back a little; he kissed her throat and the hollow of her shoulder.

They stopped at last for breath and she rested, unmoving, in the support of his arms; her lashes lifted a little and her eyes, deep and shining, seemed to include and pass beyond him. The blood began to flow back, clear and bright, into her lips which his kiss had whitened.

“Send me away,” he whispered. “Do you hear? For God’s sake send me away.”

“Not yet.” She slid her hand upward along his arm, and brushed her fingertips lightly over his hair.

He held her harder. “Send me away. I’ve no right to be here.”

“I know.” She drew his face down again to hers. “I know all that. Not yet.”

He could feel the stretch of her muscles, firm and flexible, as she reached upward in his tightened arms. He kissed her and felt her fingers move in a vague caress about his head. Her gown, loosened sideways, showed two ribbons of pale satin knotted at the shoulder. She shut her eyes and rubbed her face sideways, as a cat does, against his cheek.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” she murmured under her breath.

The yellow glare of the light, high up in its cut-glass shade, dazzled in his eyes.

“Where can we go?”

Am I saying this, asked a distant and bewildered voice within him, intruding from the day. He let it fall silent. She turned softly in his arms and said, “I’ll—”

They both stiffened, fixed in an embrace which they no longer felt. There had been a sound—a step, or some other movement—on the floor above.

“Quick!” She slipped from his arms, folding her gown round her, and snatched his coat from the stand by the door. “Quick, put this on, say something ordinary.”

“I—” His voice trailed off. He could think of absolutely nothing to say: he was dazed as if he had been wakened from deep sleep by an explosion. She shook the coat out and held it up to him, crooked, with the sleeves out of reach. Recovering himself, he took it away from her and threw it over his arm. The house was perfectly silent.

“It wasn’t anything,” he said. “A board creaking somewhere, I expect.”

She clutched him by the sleeve and pulled him towards the door. “No. It was Pedlow. I could tell it was.”

He detached her clenched fingers and held them. They felt cold at the tips. “You’re not frightened of Pedlow, are you?” he said.

“No. Not really. Of course not.” She smiled, looking past him at the stairs.

He warmed her hands in his. “You mustn’t be frightened. All these old retainers get a bit queer. I’ve seen a lot. She’s only on your nerves because you’re continually cooped up with her, and overtired. I’ll make you up a tonic; you ought to be taking one.”

She laughed under her breath. “How delicious you are. Will you really mix me a tonic?”

“No,” said Kit as a thought occurred to him. “Better not. I’ll find you a good proprietary one.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because,” he said slowly, “it would make you technically a patient of mine.”

“Don’t you want me to be?”

He dropped his coat on the floor, and pulled her to him by the shoulders.

“No. I don’t.”

After a little while she pushed him away. “I’m sure she heard you. You must go.”

“Yes. How shall I see you again?”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said softly. “You know when we wake in the morning we shan’t be able to forget this fast enough.”

“That’s impossible.” But he knew, as he spoke, that it was true. He looked down at her hair tangled behind her ears; her face was turned away. “Life’s hopeless, isn’t it?” he said.

She nodded, and moved to free herself; but at the last moment he caught her back again. She struggled with unexpected strength.

“No. You don’t. … Go now. Please.”

Her arms slipped suddenly round him. He felt her hair against his throat and heard his own heart like some external noise.

“What is it, then?” She tilted her face upwards against his shoulder. “Don’t you want it to be to-morrow morning?”

“My God.” He kissed her angrily; she put her hand over his mouth.

“It is to-morrow, you know, already. It must be after one.”

Impatiently, without thinking, he said, “Oh, this doesn’t count.”

“I know. The small hours never seem part of any day, do they? A sort of No Man’s Land.”

“Yes, that’s what I always—” He stopped, because the conversation between their eyes had taken a different turn, and the rest of the sentence had left his mind. They were silent; her hand, with which she had been idly caressing his shoulder, rested there motionless.

At last she said slowly, “I’m so afraid Pedlow may have heard the car.”

He steadied his voice. “She sleeps like a log. If she’d heard it she’d have been down by now.”

“Yes. … I don’t know.” She strained away, listening and staring into the darkness; then suddenly turned back and clung to him. Joining her hands behind his head she pulled his face down to hers. “Listen. Drive your car away. Leave it somewhere else. Walk round the lawn, by the side of the shrubbery, where it’s dark. I’ll leave the glass doors open, and have a light burning.” _

Staring at her closed eyes he whispered, “We must be out of our minds.”

“Yes. We are, of course. You mustn’t make any noise.”

“No. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of all that.”

“Well, go then. Go now. What are you waiting for?” She twisted out of his hands. “Here, you’ve left your coat again. No, put it on. Don’t you see it’s pouring with rain? Do you want to get pneumonia? Don’t leave the car too near the house. How long will you be?”

“I don’t know. Six or eight minutes, I should think.”

“All that time? We shall both have long enough to change our minds.”

“No.”

“If you do you’re to stay away. Mind that. I shall know if you have. I shan’t want you.”

“Be quiet.” He bent to her, but she pushed him away. “And if you change your mind?” he asked. “What then?”

She looked up at him, thoughtfully and without protest. “If I do I’ll put the light out and close the doors.”

“All right,” said Kit. He turned towards the porch, then came back and caught her by the arm.

“What is it?” she asked. “Oh, do go.”

“I will. But I had to … I wasn’t sure; you do know, don’t you, that I’m …”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course I do. Don’t fuss, dear.” Then, seeing that he still hesitated, “Surely you’re not going to begin telling me …” She smiled. “No; you never would.”

“Would what?”

“Oh, nothing. I meant—that tale about her being your wife only in name. But you wouldn’t.”

Kit let go of her arm. After a little pause he said, “I don’t think, really, it makes any essential difference.”

She was staring at his face. “My dear, have I … I didn’t … Don’t pay attention to what I say. I don’t pay half enough myself.”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. In any case, probably the less we relate this to real life the better.”

She was silent for a moment. “You’re refreshingly honest,” she said at length.

“I don’t know—I—”

“Are you going to stand here talking till it’s light, or we’ve both got bored?”

She opened the door, letting in a swirl of rain. The wind lifted back her hair, as he had once seen it lifted in fancy.

“Did you have a hat? Or gloves? For God’s sake don’t leave anything about.”

“I didn’t bring any.” He smiled at her. “If you remember, I came in a hurry.”

“Did you?” she murmured vaguely. “Oh … yes, you did.” She coloured faintly. “I’d forgotten you
could
hurry, we seem to have been at this door all night.” She gave him a little push towards it; then checked him by the coat lapels. “You’re sweet.” She kissed him without passion, tenderly and gently, and shut the door behind him. He went out, the rain beating suddenly into his face.

“H
ARK TO THE RAIN,”
she said.

The wind had shifted, and was tossing handfuls of drops against the tall glass panes of the doors. Their voices rose a little under the screen of its noise, sinking to whispers in the silences between. “Are you cold, my darling? Your shoulders feel cold.”

“Cold?” said Kit drowsily. “Don’t be silly.”

She fished up the eiderdown from the floor beside her and tucked it round him, murmuring, with childish tenderness, “You mustn’t ever be cold.”

“I never will be again.”

“You’re going to sleep.” She drew her fingertips in the darkness exploringly over his closed eyes.

“Not really.”

“You mustn’t go to sleep. I should have to wake you and I couldn’t bear it. What a shame. Let’s put the light on again.”

She leaned across him and switched it on; it stood on a low table beside the bed, a little gimcrack battery affair like a ship’s lantern. He turned to look at her as she slid down beside him again; she lay with casual grace and well-being, as if she were resting after a swim.

“You’re good,” he said, and saw her smile. But he had used the word as one might use it of bread. In the language which was, so far, the only one in which they had exchanged confidences, she had spoken with a perfect honesty and completeness. Seeing his eyes on her she stretched again, contentedly, as people stretch in the sun.

“I’m glad you like me.”

Exactly, he thought, as if she were a little girl who had given somebody a birthday present. She had a curious fortuitous innocence which had never left her, even in the moments which had most belied it.

He folded her into the eiderdown, and she curled herself into his arms. Over her head he could see the room, which had only been a vague confused background before. The far end of it was almost invisible in shadow: he could just make out a great marble fireplace carved in high Gothic relief, and filled with brass; an arched mirror over it, reflecting innumerable silver oddments on the mantelpiece. Above their heads, like an inverted fountain of muddy water, hung the dusty crystals of an Empire chandelier, returning the small glow of the lamp. The carpet was pink, with a lattice of darker pink flowers; it seemed to stretch away like a sea; a gilded chair, a mahogany occasional table piled with knickknacks and photographs, islanding its distances here and there. The bed, a stiff guest-room affair with high wrought-brass head and foot, looked accidental and lonely, like a raft.

“What a cavern to sleep in,” he said. “Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”

“Sometimes it’s fun. I act costume plays when I go to bed. I remember, though, it did frighten me once when I woke in the dark and couldn’t remember where I was. I wish you’d been there.”

“Mightn’t that have been a bit upsetting too?”

“Not even for a minute.” She tucked her head under his chin.

A yard or so from the bed was a gilt, spindle-legged sofa, covered with faded rose brocade. Her blue gown was lying in a heap over one end of it, and it must have been the place where she kept her clothes at night, for, overflowing from behind one of the cushions, there emerged the top of a silk stocking and a pink satin suspender. The blue gown was over the near end; he could see that the little loop for hanging it up was broken. (Janet was always much preoccupied with such things, so that he had grown unconsciously to notice them.)

A little way along, against the wall, stood a mahogany chest of drawers, the only other bedroom furniture besides the bed. Her brushes and cream-jars were strewn at random over the top; one of the drawers had jammed because it was too full to shut, and from a corner protruded a bunch of crêpe de Chine. On the tall foot-piece of the bed the second stocking of the pair hung by itself, looking appealing, as if it were waiting for Christmas. She must be shockingly untidy, he thought, if this represented her party manners for a visitor; and, pierced by a sudden irrational tenderness, he gathered her in and began to kiss her again.

“What is it?” she asked him.