She stood there for a long time looking at him, realizing that it was over, and that this was the last time she would ever see him. She could not fight against the fact that he would never speak to her again. She felt her desire for him grow stronger than it had ever been, and bending down, she kissed him on the lips.
“You won,” she whispered. And, arranging his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and feeling it dead in her fingers, she turned and left him for ever, unable to turn the tarp back across his face.
She bumped into the man outside and he handed her something done up in a bandanna. She took it automatically.
“We found this in his pocket,” he said.
She stuffed the bandanna into her coat and got Curt to take her back to the house. As they started, she saw once more the window to the shed. All the way back to the house, she kept her eyes in front of her, remembering. She could feel how warm his flesh had been, and every gesture of his body. She could hear his voice.
When they got back she went to her own room and lay down on the bed. She did not cry. What she wanted, more than anything else, was to touch that face with her hands, but instead they pressed only the pillow. She sank her face into it, knowing that she must help him. She must pull through these few months more.
She got up, and feeling in her coat for a handkerchief, pulled out the bandanna. Something fell to the floor and glittered in the sunlight. She stooped to pick it up and saw what it was. It was the St. Christopher’s medal on a chain, and she realized that he must have palmed it. Thoughtfully she put it back in her pocket and went into the living-room to see Curt.
He asked her to come back to Reno with him.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You can’t stay here alone all winter.”
“I have the servants.”
“You’ll go mad.”
She smiled slowly. “No I won’t,” she said sadly. “You see, Christopher won.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m pregnant,” she told him. She could feel her jaw wobbling. “I’m going to have his son.”
“Did he know that?”
She shook her head.
“But you can’t live here alone. You’ll need a doctor.”
Again she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ll have him here, in Christopher’s house. That’s where he belongs. You see, nothing can ever hurt him here.”
“At least come until the worst of the winter is over.”
“No,” she said. Getting up, she went out on to the terrace, facing the mountains in their majesty and strength. She looked beyond the pass, to the higher peaks themselves. The sun shone and the whole landscape seemed suddenly to vibrate and to live.
“Oh, Christopher,” she whispered. “Christopher.” She looked up, into the sun, and now at last she could cry, for now, she knew, there was hope, for her and for him. And she could feel him all around her; close to him once more, she knew that she was strong, and could already feel life stir within her, born free and full of joy.
And as for Curt, at last she thought she understood, and loved him for it. He was the stranger in the house of Admetus. He was the ordinary angel. He would always be her friend.
*
Bishop; Bentinck Island; Rome
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2012
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© David Stacton, 1956
The right of David Stacton 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 978–0–571–29469–5
The Self-Enchanted Page 25
