“Jehovah is the husband man, and Jerusalem stands for his woman. She was ‘married’ to Jehovah and brought forth her offspring to him. Moreover thou hast taken thy sons and thy daughters whom thou hast borne unto me, and these thou hast sacrificed unto them to be devoured. Is this of thy whoredoms a small matter?”
Too much for me altogether, she began to think flippantly, then suddenly crushed the volume between her hands and bowed her head. Oh God, she thought, I should like to bear his child.
And with that desire she felt again the hot tears rising, and thrust the book back into the shelf and turned again to face the desks, the blotting-paper, the circular table with the Electrical Times opened on it.
I shall remember this room until I die, she told herself.
She opened the door, closed it carefully behind her, and walked away slowly along the corridor.
As, when a child, she had nibbled her biscuit slowly, tasting every crumb, hoarding each grain of sweetness, so now she walked slowly along the passage, slowly to the head of the stairs, and slowly down. At every step her wide skirts rustled round her, her shoe buckles sparkled in the electric light; she was conscious of her bright incongruity in that dull, solid place.
Carne was standing in the lounge facing the staircase. His face was no longer bleak with misery. His eyes met hers, and held them with a welcoming smile as she walked down and towards him.
He had changed into a dinner jacket, and she felt that they two made a gala party in the clattering and commercial atmosphere.
All she said was: “Have I kept you waiting?”
And he, verifying his remark by a glance at his wrist-watch, said, “Exactly one minute, thirty-five seconds.” And they both laughed.
They went into the dining-room; it was more cheerful than the lounge and bedrooms had suggested. Carne had reserved a table by the fire. Only three others were occupied. They had a sense of convivial privacy there, in a little alcove, with the shaded lamp and the yellow chrysanthemums and the attentive waiter.
We shall have nothing to talk about, Sarah told herself. She was mistaken. He asked her questions, mostly about places that she had visited, and she was surprised to learn how much he knew. Paris she had expected, but not Biarritz, Monte Carlo, Vienna, Baden-Baden. She found in herself an appetite to learn every episode of his history. When he mentioned Budapest, and added “the Hungarians—you can get on with them—wonderful chaps with horses”—she wanted to know when he had formed his opinions, why, how and where.
He had ordered a light hock, rather scornfully, saying that all the wines were bound to be bad there. She was no connoisseur, and she drank little, yet she felt a rare exhilaration threading her veins. Only to sit there, eating indifferent food, listening to his slow voice, watching his hands manipulate knife and fork, meant a timeless ecstasy.
He no longer treated her as though she were Midge’s teacher. She was a woman and charming, and he was entertaining her. She prayed desperately that she might do nothing to jar upon him, yet her consciousness of the times when she had made other men think her attractive calmed her panic.
From far away sounds of a dance band reached them.
“Is that wireless?” she asked idly, to fill a pause in the conversation.
He asked the waiter, who replied that it was a dance band, that every fortnight there was dancing in the ballroom, tickets five shillings—half a crown to residents.
Her fingers tapped the tune on the table-cloth. He asked her, “Do you like dancing?”
“I love it, but I haven’t danced for over a year, I think.”
“Nor I—for far more than that.”
“You like it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. She felt his dark eyes regarding her sombrely. Suddenly she wanted so badly to dance with him that she nearly wept.
The waiter was serving them with fruit salad in little metal cups. She wondered—when did he dance last? With whom? She was not jealous of his wife, but she could have gladly killed the other women whom he had ever held.
She said: “Do you remember the war-time dance mania? Were you ever at the Grafton Galleries?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Once,” he said. She cursed herself, guessing that she had aroused unwelcome memory. But what were you to do with a man whose entire past was raw with wounds—either to himself or to her? There was no safety. The taste of pineapple in her mouth was the Grafton Galleries. The flavour of tinned apricot was the flavour of grief.
“What about having our coffee in the lounge?” he asked.
“Why not?” It would perhaps prolong the evening. They would have coffee. They would have cigarettes. Oh, God, God, God, make him like me a little. Make him like me enough to be glad to spend the whole evening with me.
But of what use is prayer? When prayer becomes necessary, she thought ruefully, its futility is already proved.
She swept out of the dining-room before him, with all the dignity of which her small figure was capable. The saxophones and violins wailed louder. They were playing a stupid little tune called “Didn’t want to say good-bye.” Sarah paused, and Carne came up beside her. He too was listening. The silly persistent music beckoned them. They went on into the lounge and drank brandies with their coffee.
Conversation flagged. The bright distant places were overshadowed. The pink and white azaleas of Monte Carlo, the mountain-shadowed gardens of Aix-les-Bains, the wild seas of San Sebastian froze themselves in the memory; Muriel had been there; pain dwelt there. Sarah would not touch them.
He handed her his cigarette case, gold, plain, slender. Inside was engraved in square letters, “R. from M.” and a date.
I don’t care, Sarah told herself, taking a cigarette. It was a long time ago, and he got little satisfaction out of her. She has been shut away for fifteen years; there must have been others.
“What about this dancing?” he asked suddenly.
Again her heart stood still.
Suddenly she felt. I can’t bear it. If I dance with him, I’m lost.
But smiling she said, “Well, what about it? It might be quite agreeable.”
“There doesn’t seem much else to do—in Manchester. Unless you like those film things.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a good film on. And I’m sure you loathe them.”
They went down to dance.
The underground room was rather hot and tawdry. Couples in every stage of morning, afternoon and evening dress were dancing. They danced well and badly. The only rule was that ladies must take their hats off. A coloured limelight swept the jogging gyrating crowd.
It’s not real. It’s all impossible, thought Sarah. Big and black and white Carne stood before her, solid as a cliff. Into her mind flashed that vision of him in the snow on his black horse. She slid into his arms.
She was conscious of his height, his strength and her smallness. She made herself deliberately as light, as small as possible. Perhaps, she thought, if he hardly notices me he’ll think I’m Muriel. Perhaps he’ll forget I’m any one and only remember that he’s enjoying himself.
He danced as she would have expected—well but gravely. Between the dances, they sat at a little table and he drank whiskies and sodas and she sipped lemonade. It occurred to her that unless he had a very strong head, he must be growing a little tight, but he showed no signs of it in speech or movement. Once he ordered the band to play a special tune, and her spirits rose absurdly. He wants to dance this with me, she thought. This tune is mine.
To her disappointment, it was not a tune she recognised, and again she wondered, How does he know this kind of thing? With whom has he danced?
She began to remember that, even if she had met him earlier, there would have been no hope for her; she was a blacksmith’s daughter and he was a snob.
He is a snob and stupid, she told herself, thinking by reasoned criticism to cure her infatuation; but it was useless. His arm was round her. His hand held her hand. She could feel the hard uneven thumping of his heart
; her body was pressed to his, interpreting by a profound foreknowledge his movements before he could make them. I know, she thought, when he’s going to dip, pause, turn; I know nothing of his mind, nothing, nothing, nothing. But I know what his body is going to do before he does it. His body was a thick impenetrable fortress. She could never learn his heart.
And suddenly this contact of her body with his, which she had desired so hungrily, became unbearable. She lost step; the invisible current between them snapped.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, and he led her to her seat.
It was half-past eleven. Dancing continued until midnight. Earlier she had resented that closure; now she longed for it. She forced herself to smile airily.
“Well, what about it? Eleven? I have a train to catch at eight o’clock and all those parcels to pack.” She rose.
“Won’t you let me get you another drink?”
Did he want her? Was he trying to keep her? The pale handsome mask of his face said nothing, yet as she looked at it she knew. He’s ill, he’d old, he’s tired, and he’s lonely. She wanted to punish him because the flame that burned her had not even touched him. She did not sit down again.
“Oh, I’ve drunk enough—far more than is seemly in a head mistress on holiday.”
“I’d forgotten that you were a head mistress.”
Her heart leapt.
“Well—if you must go . . .” But his voice was reluctant.
“I—Don’t you think we shall both be tired?”
“Then why not just sit?” he asked. “After all, it’s early.”
He wants me to stay; he wants me to stay, she triumphed.
“You don’t have to hurry away then, in the morning?”
“No. As a matter of fact.”—his long lashes lifted and his dark eyes frowned at her, as though it were she who had hurt him—“I’ve got to go round here looking for some kind of home for my wife.”
It was the first time that he had ever mentioned her and the shock robbed her of breath. She thought—then he is a little drunk or he wouldn’t tell me that. She said, “I’m sorry. That must be rather a grim business.” She sat down again.
“It is. It’s damned grim.”
“Must she come to Manchester?”
“Perhaps. I may be getting a job here.”
“You? A job?”
“Riding school.”
“But are you going to leave Maythorpe?”
“Not if I can help it. But it’s as well to have a second string to your bow. Depends what the Government do for us. And the market—and the season too. Can’t tell in farming. Depends on so many things outside yourself.”
The whisky had loosened his tongue. The dancing had excited him. His dark eyes blazed in his white face, and he repeatedly made a puzzling gesture. He would put his hand on the table, draw in the well-shaped but now work-stained fingers, stretch them out again, and stare at them, as though they were giving him some kind of trouble for which he could not quite account.
“Are you thinking of selling up, then?” she persisted, recalling rumours.
“The place isn’t mine to sell. It belongs to the bank, and the bank’s in Snaith’s pocket, and he wants the farm for his lunatics.” He beckoned the waiter and ordered another whisky; she sat regarding him, now quite coldly observant.
“Do you believe in curses?” he asked suddenly.
“What kind of curses?”
He held the tumbler against the light, measuring the whisky before adding the soda.
“When I ran away with my wife, her mother cursed me. Of course she was mad at the time. My wife is mad now, you know. In an asylum.”
“I know.”
“She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”
“I know. I saw her portrait.”
“She hasn’t recognised me for over a year. Do you think Midge is like her?”
“No,” lied Sarah. “She’s more like you.”
“Sometimes I think I’m going mad myself.”
“That’s natural enough. But it’s morbid. I’ve never met any one more sane.”
“Do you think so? How do you know? You don’t know me.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I know you quite well.”
“You know me—eh? You’ve watched me? You see how I crack up in emergencies? How they’ve got me down?”
“No. No. They haven’t.”
“They’ve got me down. They’ll sell Maythorpe over my head. Castle’s dying. Midge is better off with Mrs. Beddows. Muriel doesn’t even know me. And you would prefer not to be here with me. I’m giving you a hell of an evening.”
“No,” said Sarah.
“Not a hell of an evening?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to go and leave me?”
“No.”
Then he gave her an extraordinary look—a sideways look which was quizzical, explanatory—and frivolous. That was the word—a frivolous look. He’s drunk, she thought. And he takes me now for a little tart. That’s the kind of man he is. That’s the kind of way he thinks of women—all but his wife. I’m a little tart.
And because no man had ever treated her lightly before, her breath came in quick jerks and her palms moistened; but she sat and smiled, her will riding calm above her panicking body.
“You don’t want to leave me?” he repeated.
“No,” she replied.
The programme was approaching its conclusion. The lights grew dim; the orchestra wailed softly into a waltz.
“Come and dance this.”
She rose. If he was drunk, he still could dance. They were locked together in perfection of physical sympathy.
The tune changed to “Auld Lang Syne.”
“This is the end,” he said.
“No,” she repeated. “It need not be.”
Again he flashed at her that look. This time she met it, and smiled fully and frankly into his eyes. His arm tightened.
“Sarah?”
“My dear?”
“Do you mean that?”
“I mean anything, you like.”
He stopped and almost lifted her from the crowd. The band played “God Save the King.”
“Do you mean that I need not be alone to-night?”
“Yes. I mean that.”
“May I come to your room?”
“Yes. It’s on the fifth floor. Number 517.”
“517,” he repeated, looking down at her with calm appreciation.
Her mind was quite cold. He is drunk, she thought; he has forgotten who I am or who he is; he thinks I am a little tart. Well? I am Sarah Burton; I have Kiplington High School; he is a governor. This may destroy me. Even if I do not have his child, this may destroy me.
I will be his little tart; I will comfort him for one night.
“You mean that? Sarah?”
“Wait half an hour. I will have the door unlocked. No one will notice. You can come straight in.”
“Five hundred and seventeen,” he repeated, and she twisted from him, slipped between the couples, and was away.
This is the end; she repeated his words. She meant the end of her security as a respectable and respected professional woman; she had loved before, but never with this abandonment of pride. She would have him, drunk or sober. She would humiliate herself if necessary. She would have him though he had even forgotten her identity.
As she climbed the ten steep flights of stairs, she pressed her hands together in an agony of apprehension in case he should not come.
She undressed and lay in the broad white bed awaiting him. She had turned out the central light, and beside the bed the shaded hand-lamp illuminated only her red roses in a jug, the huge white counterpane and her still, expectant face. The ugly desolate room was lost in shadow. She smiled, thinking, This is my bridal chamber. She rembered her disgust when she had first looked at it. But it was the only room, they had said, available. She smiled, in amusement at her disdainful self. It was a lovely room. She listened to the noises in t
he corridor. She heard doors bang, the lift rattle, bells ring. Slowly, too slowly, the hotel began to settle itself down for the night. By instinct rather than sight she knew when the door opened. She sat up and held out her hand.
“Come in, my dear.”
He closed the door behind him. She could see in the shadows his tall figure. She heard his quick panting breath. He must have run up the stairs, avoiding the tell-tale lift.
“You’re—sure?” he gasped.
“So sure, my dear,” she steadied her voice with an effort, “that I know now I have never been sure of anything before in my life.”
She felt rather than saw him move towards her; she caught the gleam of a dark red dressing-gown, of ivory flesh.
Suddenly he stopped.
He had taken hold of the brass rail at the foot of the bed.
She heard a quivering groan. The bedstead rattled with his violent seizure. She cried, “Oh—what is it?” and raised the lamp and saw his face distorted with agony, his snarling lips drawn back from his chattering teeth, his skin a livid grey, smeared with perspiration.
She sprang from the bed and stood beside him. For an interminable period he did not speak.
“What is it? Oh, what is it?” she cried. It seemed to her that more than a physical torture racked him.
Then the attack withdrew a little and he became aware of her. He tried to smile.
“It’s all right. Heart. Nothing.”
“Come and lie down.”
He shook his head, but she put her arm round him and between two spasms of pain got him on to the bed and covered his jerking body.
“I’m going to get you some brandy.”
“No.” He made a violent effort. “Nitrate of amyl. Little tin in my waistcoat pocket.”
“What room? What’s your number?”
But the onslaught of pain attacked him, and he could only sit, his arms stretched out, trying to stifle his groans of agony. The bed shook. Sarah thought that the whole hotel must hear those half-checked cries. Then again he spoke.
South Riding Page 41
