‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen more of you, Judy. We haven’t had any of our serious conversations this time, have we?’
Oh the charming mockery and indifference! … She took her hand away and said briefly:
‘No, we haven’t.’
This time there would be nothing new and delightful to remember. Save for this present vain exchange of words, they had scarcely spoken to one another. The evening when they had all bathed together, the afternoon she had played tennis with them, neither eyes nor voices had encountered each other secretly, alone together. She had seen him watching her now and then: that was all.
‘Last time we met,’ he said, his eyes on her, ‘we had a very serious conversation.’
‘Ah, I thought you’d forgotten that.’
She felt herself tremble slightly.
‘No. No.’ His fixed gaze never wavered from her face; and she could not move. She looked down and saw, on the writing-table, a white square and the name Anthony Baring Esq. on it. Roddy had a delicate and graceful handwriting.
‘There’s the car,’ he whispered.
‘I must go.’
‘Come this way, through the garden door.’
He got up and put his arm round her and led her towards the door, clasping her close to him. The reddish light pressed, whispering and furtive.
‘You kissed me last time,’ he murmured. ‘Will you kiss me again?’
She swiftly kissed his cheek.
He laughed; then drew his breath in suddenly and stopped laughing. Down came his stranger’s face to her. She felt his mouth hard, and her own terribly soft and yielding. The pressure of his lips was painful, alarming, – a contact never dreamed of. She drew back and saw, in the mirror opposite, her own white-faced reflection, one hand to its mouth.
‘Tonight,’ he said very low, ‘shall I come and fetch you in the canoe? Well go down, down, – to the islands. Just us two. Shall I come?’
She nodded, speechless.
‘Late. Be waiting for me about eleven.’ He added, in his usual, careless voice: ‘Not unless it’s fine, of course. There may be a thunderstorm.’
She went out of the room, into gold deeps of light and the evening shadows.
She came back into her own garden. The sinking sun flooded the lawn. Its radiance was slit with long narrow shades, and the great chestnut trees piled themselves above it in massed somnolence. The roses were open to the very heart, fainting in their own fragrance; and around them the dim lavender-hedges still bore white butterflies upon their spear-tips. The weeping beech flowed downwards, a full green fountain, whispering silkily. Forms, lights, colours vibrated, burned, ached, leapt with excess of life. The house was wide open at every door and window; and Mamma, going up the steps with a basket of flowers, paused and drew up the striped Venetian blind.
3
For hours, it seemed, they had not spoken a word. The paddle fell now and again upon the water with a light musical clash, like the sound of the shattering of thinnest crystal. Now and again the moving blade woke the water to a rich and secret murmur; as if a voice half woke out of sleep to speak a tender word; then swooned into sleep again.
She saw his arm move and glimmer; his form was just discernible in the stern of the boat, shoulders bowed forward, head motionless. Once or twice he started to whistle a fragment of tune, and then was silent again.
She lay among cushions in the bows, and watched the dark yellow moon rise, bare of clouds, behind the poplar trees. The night was heavy and still.
The canoe slipped down towards the islands. Then she would move, if her limbs still remembered how to move: he would give her a hand to help her out and they would stand among the little willows and whisper together.
Mamma was fast asleep at home, her alien spirit lapped in unconsciousness. Her dreams would not divine that her daughter had stolen out to meet a lover.
And next door also they slept unawares, while one of them broke from the circle and came alone to clasp a stranger.
The boat hissed suddenly among willows, and came to rest against a shallow bank. The clustering thin light blades of the willow-leaves fell over them as they stepped out, bit them with infinitesimal teeth.
She followed him without will, or conscious movement, through nettles and long grass, to a clearing among the bushes, in the middle of the leafy little mound which was the island. In the old days they had often picnicked here, and thought the minute patch of earth a whole world and made themselves kings and queens of it. They had gathered blackberries from these low bushes in the hot sun; and come home again with purple mouths and fingers.
Now the little boy Roddy was this tall man whose shoulder touching hers was more bewildering than the moonrise; whose head above hers was a barrier blocking out the world.
They stood side by side. He turned to her and whispered:
‘Well, Judy?’
‘Well, Roddy! …’
‘Judy, I’m going to say good-bye to you here.’ His voice was low, grave, distinct.
‘For a long time, Roddy?’
She saw him nod his head; and she bowed her own and began to sob, but without tears.
He murmured some low inarticulate exclamation, and took her gently in his arms.
‘Don’t cry, Judy. Don’t cry … Darling, don’t.’
The tenderness of his voice checked her in an instant. His hand moved up and down her bare arm, lingering over its curves, tracing the outline with a touch that made her shiver.
‘Lovely smooth arm,’ he whispered. ‘You are so lovely.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. I think so. I’ve always thought so.’
‘As long as you think so, then – that’s all I care about. You – can have it all.’
Now the moon rose, clear at last above the tree tops, and gleamed strangely into the eyes bent upon her face. His lips were smiling a faint fixed smile. His teeth glinted. The two faces gazed at one another, floating wan upon darkness.
The web had broken. Roddy had shaken himself free and come close at last. The whole of their past lives had led them inevitably to this hour.
‘Roddy, I love your hair …’ Her hand went up and stroked it; and he shut his eyes. ‘I love your eyes.’
‘I love you all – every bit of you.’
Breathless, sure of him at last, with a delicious last-minute postponement of his embrace she moved away, softly laughing.
‘Roddy, how much do you like me? This much?’
She held out her hands, parting them slowly.
‘More than that.’
‘This much?’
He copied her, laughing eagerly but silently.
‘This much?’
He held his arms out wide. She hesitated a moment and then came into them; and he was not laughing any more, but covering her face and neck with kisses.
It was a quivering darkness of all the senses, warm, melting, relentless, tender. This stranger was draining her of power; but underneath, the springs of life welled up and up with a strong new beat. He clung to her with all his force as if he could never let her go. He was a stranger, but she knew him and had known him always. She took his caressing hands and held them on her breast. In that moment he was her child; and she longed to lay his head where his hands quietly lay. He drew deep breaths, and now and then his rich voice murmured a broken word or two.
She raised her head from his shoulder and gazed in passionate detail at his face.
‘Speak, Roddy, speak.’
He shook his head and smiled – a ghost of his former smile, flickering on his lips alone. His half-shut eyes glittered as if with tears. In the moonlight she worshipped his dark head and moon-blanched features. Gradually he loosened his hold, threw his head back, and stood motionless, arms hanging at his sides, his face an unconscious, sleeping mask. If Roddy were to die young,
this was how he would look.
‘Roddy – Roddy – Roddy – I love you – I love you – I love you.’
No answer. He stooped his head and fell to closer kissing.
‘Roddy – say –’
‘What do you want me to say?’ he whispered. Again the flickering smile.
‘I love you, Roddy.’
If he would whisper back those few words, there would be peace for ever.
She laid her cheek against his, murmuring endearments.
‘My dear, my darling, my little one, I love you. My dear, I’ve always loved you. Did you know it?’
He shook his head faintly.
‘I love you too much, I’m afraid.’
Far too much, if she was to wait in vain for any response save kisses …
‘No, Judy, no.’ The words broke from him painfully. ‘You must forget about me now. Kiss me and say good-bye.’
‘Why, oh why?’ She clutched him desperately.
‘I’m going away,’ he whispered.
‘But you’ll come back? You’ll come back, Roddy?’
He was silent, utterly silent.
‘I can’t. I can’t,’ he said at last.
‘I’ll wait, Roddy. I don’t care how long I wait. I shall never want anyone else. I’ll wait years.’ There was no answer; and after a while she added in a small laboured whisper: ‘If you love me a little.’
‘Oh!’ He threw up his head with a sort of groan. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
‘You love me?’
He must, he must say it.
‘Yes, I love you.’ The words came out on a groaning breath. She put her lips on his, and stood silent, drinking in her bliss.
He tossed his head suddenly, as if waking up.
‘Judy, we must go back, we must go back.’
He sighed and sighed.
‘No. A little longer. We’ll talk a little before we go. We must talk.’
He laughed – a normal teasing laugh.
‘A little conversation,’ he said. ‘You’re a tiger for conversation, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t mind your laughing at me.’
They were going to laugh gaily at each other, with each other, for ever.
He put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face up to his.
‘Lovely Judy. Lovely dark eyes … Oh your mouth. I’ve wanted to kiss it for years.’
‘You can kiss it whenever you want to. I love you to kiss me. All of me belongs to you.’
He muttered a brief ‘Oh!’ beneath his breath, and seized her, clasped her wildly. She could neither move nor breathe; her long hair broke from its bit pins and fell down her back, and he lifted her up and carried her beneath the unstirring willow-trees.
He had brought her back home. Languorous and bemused she stepped out upon the bank in the breaking dawn, and turned to look at him beneath her heavy lids. She could not see him clearly: he seemed blurred, far away.
‘Good-bye,’ he said briefly.
‘I’ll see you before you go,’ she said mechanically.
Not that it really mattered now. Time was not any more and he would be with her for ever.
He nodded; and then abruptly turned the canoe down stream again: looked at her once, faintly smiled, waved his hand an instant and went on.
She walked through the waiting, clear pale-coloured garden, into the house, up to her bedroom; stared in the dim glass at her strange face; sank into bed at last.
4
It was on the next evening that she awoke to the realization that Roddy had not come – might not – certainly would not now. He was going away. He, who always found self-expression, explanations, so difficult, would be at a loss to know what to say when he too woke up. He who never made plans would be helpless when it came to making any which should include her too in the future. Last night he had been dumb, he had sighed and sighed, whispered inarticulately: he would find it hard to be the first to break silence, to endeavour to re-establish the balance of real life between them. She would write him a letter, tell him all; yes, she would tell him all. Her love for him need no longer be like a half-shameful secret. If she posted a letter tonight, he would get it tomorrow morning, just before he left.
She wrote:
Roddy, this is to say good-bye once more and to send you all my love till we meet again. I do love you, indeed, in every sort of way, and to any degree you can possibly imagine; and beyond that more, more, more, unimaginably. The more my love for you annihilates me, the more it becomes a sense of inexhaustible power.
Do you love me, Roddy? Tell me again that you do; and don’t think me importunate.
I am so wrapped round and rich in my thoughts of you that at the moment I feel I can endure your absence. I almost welcome it because it will give me time to sit alone, and begin to realize my happiness. So that when you come back – Oh Roddy, come back soon!
I have loved you ever since I first saw you when we were little, I suppose, – only you, always you. I’m not likely ever to stop loving you. Thank God I can tell you so at last. Will you go on loving me? Am I to go on loving you? Oh but you won’t say no, after last night. If you don’t want to be tied quite yet, I shall understand. I can wait years quite happily, if you love me. Roddy I am yours. Last night I gave you what has always belonged to you. But I can’t think about last night yet. It is too close and tremendous and shattering. I gasp and nearly faint when I try to recall it. I dissolve.
When I came back to my room in the dawn I stared and stared at my face in the glass, wondering how it was I could recognize it. How is it I look the same, and move, eat, speak, much as usual?
Ought I to have been more coy, more reluctant last night? Would it have been more fitting – would you have respected me more? Was I too bold? Oh, that is foolishness: I had no will but yours.
But because I love you so much I am a little fearful. So write to me quickly and tell me what to think, feel, do. I shall dream till then.
There is so much more to tell you, and yet it is all the same really. My darling, I love you!
Judy.
She posted it. Next morning she hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs in the sudden expectation of finding a letter from him; but there was none.
Now he would have got hers … Now he would have read it … Now he would be walking to the station…
She heard the train steam out; and doubt and sorrow came like a cloud upon her; but only for a little while.
In the cool of the evening she wandered down to the river and sat beside it dreaming. She dreamt happily of Jennifer. She would be able to love Jennifer peacefully now, think of her without that ache, see her again, perhaps, with all the old restlessness assuaged. Jennifer’s letter would surely come soon now …
If Roddy were to ask her to come away with him at once, for ever, she would take just the copper bowl from her table and spring to him, and leave all the rest of the past without a pang.
Perhaps Roddy had written her a letter just before he had gone away; and if so it might have come by the evening post. She left the river and went to seek it.
Who could it be coming towards her down the little pathway which led from the station to the bottom of the garden and then on to the blue gate in the wall of the garden next door? She stood still under the overhanging lilacs and may-trees, her heart pounding, her limbs melting. It was Roddy, in a white shirt and white flannels, – coming from the station. He caught sight of her, seemed to hesitate, came on till he was close to her; and she had the strangest feeling that he intended to pass right by her as if he did not see her … What was the word for his face? Smooth: yes, smooth as a stone. She had never before noticed what a smooth face he had; but she could not see him clearly because of the beating of her pulses.
‘Roddy!’
He lifted his eyebrows.
‘Oh, hu
llo, Judith.’
‘I thought you’d gone away.’
‘I’m going tomorrow. A girl I know rang up this morning to suggest coming down for the day, so I waited. I’ve just seen her off.’
A girl he knew … Roddy had always had this curious facility in the dealing of verbal wounds.
‘I see … How nice.’
A face smooth and cold as a stone. Not the faintest expression in it. Had he bidden the girl he knew good-bye with a face like this? No, it had certainly been twinkling and teasing then.
‘Well I must get on.’ He looked up the path as if meditating immediate escape; then said, without looking at her, and in a frozen voice: ‘I got a letter from you this morning.’
‘Oh you did get it?’
There could never have been a more foolish-sounding bleat. In the ensuing silence she added feebly: ‘Shall you – answer it – some time?’
‘I thought the best thing I could do was to leave it unanswered,’
‘Oh …’
Because of course it had been so improper, so altogether monstrous to write like that …
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I thought … I’m sorry.’
She ought to apologize to him, because he had meant to go away without saying anything, and she had come on him unawares and spoilt his escape.
‘I was very much surprised at the way you wrote,’ he said.
‘How do you mean, surprised, Roddy?’ she said timidly.
She had known all along in the deepest layer of her consciousness that something like this would happen. Permanent happiness had never been for her.
It was not much of a shock. In a moment that night was a far, unreal memory.
‘Well’ – he hesitated. ‘If a man wants to ask a girl to – marry him he generally asks her himself – do you see?’
‘You mean – it was outrageous of me not to wait – to write like that?’
‘I thought it a little odd.’
‘Oh, but Roddy, surely – surely that’s one of those worn-out conventions … Surely a woman has a perfect right to say she – loves a man – if she wants to – it’s simply a question of having the courage … I can’t see why not … I’ve always believed one should …’
Dusty Answer Page 25
