She lay for a few minutes drinking in the comfort of her blankets; the security, the reassurance of the growing light. Soon the birds would be singing. Soon the first long shafts of the sunrise would be striking across the untamed leaves of the garden. Soon an occasional car would sound, humming singly through the distance; early labourers would be tramping off to work; there would be a smell of frying bacon. The day would be here.
And Mildred would sleep on. Sleep on, no doubt, through all the growing stir of the morning. Till eight—till nine. Till the sun was high, and all the world was a-bustle. Till the seventh hour was gone—lost for ever in the humming, rattling busy-ness of one more August day.
But as yet, of course, there was only a glimmering greyness; only enough to show up the walls, the furniture, as dim, shapeless mounds. And as yet the birds were not singing; outside there was still a grey, dewy silence, quieter even than the night.
There was a knock on Meg’s door.
“Who is it?”
Meg had started up, her bare shoulders shivering in the damp chill of dawn. “Who is it?”
The door opened a little, and it was Mildred peering round. She looked wispy, defenceless, after the night. Her voice was husky, still rasped with sleep.
“Are you awake, Meg? I can’t sleep—I think I’ll get up and make some breakfast. I thought perhaps you’d like some too.”
“Why—yes—I think I would.” Meg was rubbing her eyes, unsure. “It’s funny—I was awake too. It must be something in the air. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any more.”
She put her legs over the side of the bed, and for a minute sat there, stiff, half-dreaming, in this almost unknown hour. Then, slowly, she began to dress, groping for the shadowy shapes of the garments on the chair. She did not want to light a candle. The scrape of the match, the sudden darting dazzle of the flame, would seem out of place, would jar upon the dim coming of the day. Might, it almost seemed, arrest the dawn in its tracks, bring back the darkness. A step back, where Meg knew that she must step forward. Forward, it was the only way; there was no alternative now. The time when she could have stepped back was over….
What was she thinking about? What silly, dreamy notions can come into your mind at this strange hour, not yet quite real, with the night not yet quite gone.
Her feet sounded heavy, clashing like great slabs of wood in the silence as she made her way down to the kitchen.
Mildred was already there, fully dressed, and she had managed for the first time to get the rusty, unreliable little oil cooker alight; its flaring, smoky flame was already settling to a steady blue. The smell of paraffin was overpowering, but not unpleasant; it was a warm sort of smell, heralding food, companionship and light.
“I’m making some tea,” said Mildred, her voice clear and vigorous now, all huskiness gone. “Go in the front room and I’ll bring it to you.”
“I’m to be waited on, am I? How nice!” Meg moved through into the other room, where the stove was already opened up and blazing cheerily. Meg shivered a little, not with cold, but with the stiffness, the tremulousness, of very early waking. She sat down near to the inviting blaze, yawned, and gave herself up to watching the firelight as it flickered, brightened and faded on the plastered walls, and the room grew sallow with the coming day.
And now Mildred was here, pulling out the gate-legged table, spreading it with a gay gingham cloth that Meg had not seen before. As she leaned forward into the rosy firelight Mildred’s face looked young and soft, her just-applied lipstick shone with dewy freshness.
“It feels funny, all this bustling about at crack of dawn,” remarked Meg, smiling, shuddering, and stretching out her feet to the fire. “As if I was catching a train, you know—starting out on some long journey.”
Mildred put down the hot water jug with a little thud, and wiped her hands.
“Starting out on some long journey?” she repeated, as if the words were somehow too hard for her to understand.
“Why—yes—I think it feels just like that,” said Meg, yawning and shivering again. “Don’t you feel it, too?”
Mildred stared at her for a moment in silence. Then at last, unwillingly, and as if strangely disturbed, she answered: “Yes. It’s funny—but—I do.”
Now here were the two steaming cups of tea. Mildred set them on the table, and sat down opposite Meg, sipping her own tea and watching Meg in a silence that had somehow, imperceptibly, grown uneasy.
“Is it too hot?” she asked suddenly, seeing Meg set her cup down after a single sip. “Isn’t it as you like it?”
“It is a bit hot,” admitted Meg. “And, actually, Mildred, you know, I don’t take sugar.”
“Don’t take sugar? Oh, but you should, you know, so early in the morning. It wakes you up. It gives you energy. Drink it up and you’ll see.”
Obediently Meg sipped some more of the tea. After Mildred’s unwonted kindness in getting the fires going and making the tea for them both, Meg did not like to hurt her feelings.
But the tea was really sickly sweet: it was impossible. Meg could only manage a few mouthfuls. She waited till Mildred had finished hers, and then jumped up and hustled the two cups together into the washing-up bowl, hoping that Mildred had not noticed how much she had left.
Mildred was making porridge now. Leaning over the heavy, over-large saucepan, stirring earnestly, her face creased with the anxiety of the inexperienced cook. Stirring, stirring, as if she would never end.
And then, suddenly, she stopped stirring. The dull tap of the spoon against old iron ceased; and Mildred, her head raised, her whole body poised, seemed to arrest the very movement of the air with the intentness of her listening.
But Meg could hear nothing. Nothing within the cottage or without, except the all-enveloping murmur of the brightening day.
The moment relaxed. The stirring continued. But Meg could now no longer forget that the seventh hour must be coming very close. What time was it? Half past five? Six? Already, while her back had been turned, the wet, glittering pinkness of the air had brightened, and the little dusty windows were damp with the morning.
Meg tired of watching the stirring. It was making her drowsy again; it seemed to go on and on. She wandered back into the front room to set the table. A spoon each. Sugar. More cups. There wasn’t much you needed to lay for a breakfast of porridge.
And now here was the porridge, steaming hot, and not lumpy at all. Mildred had done well.
But—oh dear!—this time, how salty it was! Mildred was certainly overdoing her flavourings this morning—or was it Meg who was being hypersensitive? She forced herself to eat a few spoonfuls, and then, in a moment when Mildred had gone back to the kitchen for more milk, she slipped to the door, opened it, and flung most of what was left into the kindly oblivion of the weeds.
“Why have you opened that door?”
Meg had only just managed to slip back into her place, and set the almost empty plate in front of her, when Mildred returned from the kitchen. She looked startled rather than accusing.
“I thought it would be nice to have some fresh air,” said Meg. “It’s a lovely morning. Look. The sun’s coming up.”
It was. From where she stood, Mildred stared out through the doorway into the glancing crimson light. But the light of sunrise was harsh to her carefully made-up face. The rouge which had looked so soft and bright by firelight was now hard and ageing; the cheeks sagged a little beneath it, and the thick pinkish powder seemed only to throw into relief the lines running from her eyes and across her forehead. Almost as if she knew all this, Mildred sat down abruptly in her place, ducking away from the cruel and lovely light, and began to eat her porridge.
But she ate slowly. Every minute, now, she raised her head to listen; to listen, and to stare at Meg with an intent, half questioning look, which Meg found strangely disconcerting. Uncomfortably, she toyed with the sad remains of her porridge, trying to keep up the pretence of enjoying it.
Neither spoke. Meg was con
scious of an uncomfortable beating of her own heart now. What was the time? Half past six? Even a quarter to seven? It was nonsense, of course, all nonsense. Nothing would happen when it was seven.
Why was she so sure it was nonsense? If only her heart would stop beating so loud, she would be able to remember why she was so sure….
Through the doorway the misty light was brightening. Its chilly swirls were coiling into the room, sliding along the floor, among the chairs … all around her feet, inducing a curious numbness…. Above the mist, the first great shafts of gold were already slanting towards the doorway. Yet somehow, to the two motionless people within, it was as if not the sunrise, but some vast and devastating fire, was sweeping silently towards them.
There was something wrong. Meg roused herself, looked across the table at her companion. Why, Mildred must be ill! She was swaying in her seat … lurching from side to side … she must be fainting….
Yet as Meg moved to go to her aid, the strange thing was that the table began swaying too, as well as Mildred … and the walls … and the floor…. There was a sudden clatter of a spoon, and Meg saw that it was her own spoon that had slipped unfelt from her hand.
She stumbled, clutched the table, and regained her seat again. Her movements, startling and perilous as they had seemed to her, must in reality have been slight, for Mildred seemed to have noticed nothing. She was listening again: her eyes fixed on the brightness of the open door. Meg controlled her faintness. It must be the result of getting up so early, and then all this nervous strain. They must both pull themselves together. If only Mildred would speak, would break this tense and expectant silence.
And then Mildred did speak.
“Die!” she screamed to Meg across the bright little breakfast table. “Why don’t you die?”
And then her swaying, wavering figure seemed to be rising up, looming giant-wise towards the ceiling. Her voice came down to Meg huge as a voice from heaven, yet hoarse with fury.
“Why don’t you die?” it roared again. “There was enough in that tea—that porridge—to lay out ten men! Why don’t you die?”
Meg was aware of a hand shaking her, of the voice going on and on, louder and louder in her ears.
“It was you who made me betray him! You, with your nosy, precocious, interfering ways! If it hadn’t been for you I’d never have seen that newspaper—never have known the danger! If it hadn’t been for you I’d never have been out of my mind with shock so that I rushed for the police! If I hadn’t betrayed him he’d have loved me—he did love me! He’d planned to kill me, but he loved me too, I know he did! If only I’d stuck by him—if only I’d braved every thing, risked everything …! And it was you who prevented me—you, you sneaking, scaremongering little tell-tale—you bossy, nosy, interfering little brat!” Mildred’s voice sounded hollow now, and trembling, like some strange and terrible instrument: “And now you’re trying to interfere again … trying to be here when he comes … to let him find you here waiting … you, looking just as I looked once…. You, with all the youth and freshness that once was mine! Was that why you dressed up in my clothes? The clothes I was wearing when he came through this very door … one summer morning … and I was setting his breakfast on this very table, and he took me in his arms and told me I looked lovelier than the rising sun….”
Mildred’s voice had grown soft, and Meg could scarcely hear the words. Now it rose again to a harsh scream.
“He’s coming! He’s coming! But he shan’t find you here, he shan’t! Die! Die quickly before he comes!”
Meg did not know if it was a blow from Mildred’s hand that struck her to the ground, or if it was only her own throbbing, overpowering dizziness. Whichever it was, it was strange that there should be such a sudden silence. Was it always silent like this down here among the chair legs and the old warped boards? Or was Meg growing deaf as the drug forced her ever nearer to oblivion?
No: it must be that Mildred’s voice had indeed ceased; ceased abruptly; silenced by a sudden terrible fear—a sudden terrible hope.
For far away along the track came the crunch-crunch of distant feet.
Mildred had leaped to the doorway, her face lifted, as in worship, towards the rising sun.
“Die! Die!” she screamed again—but now her voice seemed raised less in threat than in frantic, ancient prayer. “Die! He shan’t find you here, he shan’t! Whether he comes for love or for revenge, he comes to me—to me alone!”
The huge golden light of morning was upon her. For a second Mildred stood poised, as if facing as an equal the glory of the rising sun; and then she began to run. To run and run towards the gate, towards the blinding brilliance of the sunrise. And the rising light swept over her like a tide, filling her eyes, her soul, buffeting her with silent waves of gold, until, perhaps, she scarcely knew that it was the wooden handle of a barrow, not sunlight, that struck her thigh; and as she veered sideways, towards the well, towards the final, fatal crash, she may have fancied that she was still plunging, dazzled by the glory of the morning, towards her murderer, her love.
And so she never knew that the footsteps on the cinder track were only those of Philip and a young policeman, bringing with them the news that Paul Hartman had died in prison four years ago.
CHAPTER XXIV
THEY THOUGHT THAT Meg was still unconscious; and indeed she still could not bring herself to move or open her eyes. But at intervals she could hear their talk quite clearly; could understand clearly too, perhaps more clearly than ever before.
It was understanding that they were talking about at this very moment. Isabel’s voice, pitched low but quite distinct:
“The funny thing is, Meg is the one who will understand, better than any of us, why she did it. They were so alike, you see, though I don’t think either of them ever realised it.”
But one of them realised it now. Meg’s eyes were still closed, but perhaps she could see all the more clearly for that. Could look back over fifteen years, and see a young, romantic girl, so like herself, defiantly setting up idealistic and impractical standards of love and loyalty—and failing to live up to them. Never mind that Mildred’s failure was, by most people’s standards, unavoidable; that in sending for the police she had only been acting sensibly.
Sensibly. A wild, romantic spirit, believing the world well lost for love—and when the test comes, it finds itself acting sensibly. Sensibly, and with nothing at all to distinguish it from any of the millions of ordinary, timid spirits that pick their way so cautiously through their secure and lukewarm lives.
Meg could feel, as if it was her own, the cruel shock of Mildred’s self-realisation all those years ago. The discovery that great, quixotic flights of courage were not, after all, for her.
But only just not. That must have been the bitterest thought of all. When high courage has not been quite high enough; when it has missed heroism by the merest hair’s breadth, and yet in its result seems identical with the most craven cowardice—that is the hardest memory to bear.
For fifteen years this had been Mildred’s memory. Fifteen years of trying to blur the issue to herself by’ self-pity, by self-dramatisation, by telling and retelling the story from every false and flattering angle. By marrying, without love, a wealthy man who could fill her life with the sort of pleasures which demand neither love nor loyalty; a life in which self-sacrifice is superfluous, heroism positively farcical.
For a time Mildred had managed to forget.
But fifteen years pass. Paul’s sentence will have expired. He may be coming back! He will be coming back! And when he comes back he will look for her. He will look for her at the cottage.
For revenge? For love? This time she will risk everything. Without fear she will lay her life before him, and if he should strangle her in the next minute it will still be worth it. This time, she will not fail. This time, for good or evil, she will be on his side for ever.
So much for heroic resolutions. And it is easy to rent the cottage again. But, once there
, it is lonely and frightening. Revenge is a very terrible word to have in your mind day and night … especially at night, when unknown footsteps bring terrible fears and hopes … and then pass on. It is easier if you talk about it sometimes—to Isabel—to anyone who will listen.
Easier, yes; but it is not wise. For now a fuss is starting; Meg had been sent for … everyone is trying to make her leave the cottage … and she dare not explain to them why she wants to stay….
But the cottage is not only frightening; it is uncomfortable too. Discomforts that were nothing in youth are dreadful now…. Mildred finds herself for ever seeking excuses to escape them … to slip back to the comforts of the town. Fifteen years of idleness and soft living have left their mark for ever.
For ever? Really for ever? Mildred is face to face, like many a woman before her, with the terrible realisation that the attributes of her youth are gone. For years a woman may tell herself that she is still at heart the same lively, courageous, generous girl that she always was. It is merely that, just at this moment, she is too depressed to be lively; too ill-used to be generous; and prudence, not courage, happens to be appropriate on this particular occasion. And then, one day, she wakes up and knows that these feelings, these qualities, are not merely in abeyance, but gone for ever.
Gone for ever are Mildred’s looks as well. She can see it. Those discontented lines … those sagging cheeks…. Frantic visits to beauty parlour and hairdresser, the panic purchase of over-young clothes—Mildred knows in her heart that they achieve nothing. What will Paul think of the face, the figure, that he will find at the cottage now?
But he will find Meg’s face, Meg’s figure. Meg coming in out of the rain, as Mildred once did, rosy and sparkling, and with no need of the bottles and jars that now litter Mildred’s room. Meg hanging her shabby raincoat on the very hook where Mildred once hung hers: when hers, too, was shabby, and it didn’t matter because the body within was young and firm and shapely beyond the art of any dress designer.
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