It was one of the rare, enchanted summers one gets in England, with every day opening in a golden haze and closing in that symphony of dark rapturous green and glimmer one finds only in the English countryside. For the first time in her life Kay awoke to the piercing shrillness of birdcall, looked from her bedroom window, deep-set in warm Tudor stone, across the park shrouded in mist, where the delicate figures of the deer came and went like phantoms between the blurred trunks of the trees; saw with delight the small, emerald-green slots of rabbits across the silver of the dew-soaked lawns; heard the roucoulement of the doves from their cot in the middle of the sunken garden, and inhaled the perfume of flowers fresh and earthy from their soil. Sometimes she ached with a sense of intolerable loveliness.
Susan, with unexpected understanding, left her to do very much as she liked; she knew there was nowhere Kay could get into trouble on Somervell land; that if she strayed into the woods game-keepers or foresters would set her on the right track home. Once or twice Susan took her down to her own home in the village, but she quickly realized that Kay was happier by herself than with the hearty Clayborne brood, and went off with a quiet heart for long chats with her mother or to nurse the last of her sister’s long succession of infants.
Walking waist-deep through bracken, or perched on a branch overhanging the broad stream that burbled under Somervell oaks, Kay’s one regret was, inevitably, that Richard was not there. That, of course, would have been too perfect! Flung on the grass, pressing herself into the warm soil, she gave herself up sometimes to vague, turbulent imaginings, to raptures undefined, but present like shapes of dull, blurred gold in her dawning feminine consciousness. Love had roused in her a passionate curiosity about sex; she had suddenly became aware of her body and of the part it might play in the orchestration of passion. Like a strung instrument, she was willing to give herself to the musician’s hand; she suffered because, alone, she could not liberate the imprisoned song of her small, ripening form or exploit its beauties which she had begun, indistinctly, to suspect.
None of the terse, utilitarian instruction which Bell had taken care to give her children before sending them to boarding school entered at all into Kay’s imaginings; experience had provided for her no bridge between the practical world and the one of amorous fantasy in which, like some lost bird, her spirit strayed. Curiously enough that one squalid experience of her childhood provided no key to the mysteries which almost unceasingly she pondered. The Man on the Common; she remembered it sometimes, with glaring vividness and invariably a sense of darkness and guilt. The memory lay there, coiled like a dark worm, deep in the texture of her consciousness; now and again she looked at it, was fascinated, and shuddered away. That had nothing to do with love — the love for which she now lived; and she was puzzled, sometimes, and appalled that in a moment of ecstasy the worm could lift its dark head and remind her of itself. Why? Why? Half frenzied, she would thrust it away and drag the golden texture of her dreams around her for protection.
All of her love for poetry was now bent to slaking her thirst for knowledge. For Kay, no more “white Platonic dreams,” but burning intimations that came to her “out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is”; the beat of Swinburne’s erotic dactyls was the beat of her blood, her head swam with the sweet, strangling incense of Dowson. Although she had not access to the library at the Court, was too shy to ask for it, and would, in any case, have been baffled by its scope, there were sufficient books scattered about “the old nursery wing” which she and Susan occupied to feed her hunger for reading — books which would certainly have caused a flutter among the nurses and governesses of its former occupants; for, as the Somervell children grew up and filled the house with their friends, the old, secluded wing had been pressed into service for extra guest rooms and had surrendered, in part, the pristine character of its original occupation.
Thus it came to pass that, on the bookshelves which lined the passages and were tucked into the alcoves of the former nursery-now a comfortable sitting room where their meals were served — De Maupassant jostled Black Beauty and Alice in Wonderland; Flowers of Great Britain leaned modestly upon Fleurs du Mai, Hall Caine and Henty, D. H. Lawrence and Mrs. Molesworth were jumbled together in a confusion which no one, seemingly, had ever tried to resolve. Here was the complete set of Swinburne for which Kay had longed, upon which she swooped like a little doe in search of water. In two or three, in a large, undisciplined hand that almost swamped the flyleaf, the owners name was written: “Cynthia Somervell.”
She had tried, once or twice, to learn more of Lady Cynthia and had earned a snub from Susan that made her wince.
“It’s bad manners to pry into people’s private affairs. If Mr. Dick wanted you to know anything about his marriage he’d have told you himself.”
She knew that village people and servants gossiped and that it would have been easy to find out more if she took the trouble; but some inner delicacy kept her from a course she knew he would have disapproved. Besides, he would tell her all, one day. One day in the not-so-far-off time when she was grown up! She felt she had started to grow up very fast. Only another term — and she was free. How could she have been so foolish as to have begged for another year? And how fortunate that Mummy had not taken her at her word! Her dread of entering prematurely into the adult world was flung behind, together with other childish things. Only to get to him, to find the solution of all her teasing uncertainties, had become her one desire.
She would pause upon a line of poetry, to imagine him fishing in Scotland. Fishing was a long, solitary, and silent occupation, in which one had time to think. Did he think of her, as she of him? It struck her that they might now have written to each other, but he had left her no address, and she did not care to ask Susan for it. He could at least write to her! For a while she clung desperately to this hope; the arrival of the post became a time of sickening suspense, of agonizing aftermath. Surely it might have occurred to him?
From such wistful reproaches of the beloved she turned to the locked diary — which, unfortunately, was no longer locked; she had lost the key soon after the beginning of term. She had to be very careful where she kept it, suffered a hundred heart-shaking apprehensions, and was thankful to prove them unfounded. Under the mattress was the safest place, she had concluded; and here at Verney it was almost always with her: in the crochet knapsack, into which she put her books or the sandwiches Susan cut for her lunch, which went with her, slung over her shoulder, in all her wanderings. Dear Susan; she was so understanding. She seemed to know how wonderful it was just to be alone.
On a blazing morning she read Tristram of Lyonesse in one of her favorite hiding places by the stream, which here forked, flung one broad silver streamer across the park, and plunged the other, a quivering arrow, into the green heart of the woods. Exhausted at last by the fever and languor of the lines, she flung herself back on the grass and lay panting in the summer heat which matted the hair on her brow and soaked the collar of her dress. She loosened it for comfort, holding the damp linen away from her throat, which brought momentary relief but had little effect against the smoking pressure of the midday heat.
Presently she looked about her, at the green emptiness of the wood and fields. It would surely be safe, if she went a little way deeper under the trees? Dragging herself up, she stumbled farther along the bank, dipping under branches, reaching at last a green cave of leaves that flickered over the small chattering of the stream. Oh yes, this was safe enough, she thought as she dragged the crumpled frock over her head and let it fall to the ground. She lifted her arms, cool and bare — cooler for their dampness, in the shade. Oh, that was lovely. Kicking off her sandals, she felt the earth, rough and dry under the tender soles of her feet. They are lovely legs and feet, she reflected, looking down at them; I wonder if he’s ever noticed ... ? She pulled up her knickers, to see the loveliness extending even higher: the bronzed gold of below the knee melting into the pure ivory of narrow thighs, slen
der, but firm with gymnastics and games.
Oh, in this summer heat, how lovely to be naked! And why not, in this hidden place, as secret as a closed room? A faint tremor of excitement passed through Kay as vest and knickers joined the frock on the ground; she stood with the shadows of leaves dappling her nakedness and throwing a subtle reflection of green into the tender flesh — half shy of this outdoor nakedness, different, somehow, from the nakedness of the bathroom. Straight, straight like a wand, with hands pressed close to faintly vibrant thighs; she looked down at her hands, spreading the fingers until they clasped like plant tendrils the narrow ivory columns, drawing them slowly upward, to rest on the almost imperceptible curve of the hips, on the small cage of the ribs, and at last cupping themselves beneath the breasts — so little, so insignificant, with their unformed tips of rose!
A sudden wave of consciousness engulfed her; her knees sagged, seemingly without her own volition, sought the warm earth; her body doubled itself upon them, as though to hide herself from herself. The sun beat down upon the nape of her neck, upon her lowered head, the scattered parting of her hair. Kay knelt there a long time: in shame — in worship — she did not know which.
After a long time — it seemed — the cramping of her limbs forced her to unfold herself: she slipped on her side. Presently she took another quick, shy look at this strange, ungarmented Kay. Her eyes half closed: yes ... yes. It was natural to lie like this, naked in a wood, feeling oneself part of the wood — beautiful — and wild — and waiting. Waiting — to be discovered ...
Chapter VIII
AS THE AUTUMN WORE ON Bell realized that the last eight years had taken a heavy toll of her. During those years she had been working full time and overtime, the strain on her nerves not less than the strain on her muscles; she had given recklessly, not only of her physical strength but of that indefinable quality known as personality — that essence of the human being so greedily sought by those who are deficient in it themselves. She was weary of sick, neurotic, decadent humanity, from which the healthy animal in her recoiled, even in the act of ministering to it. She felt drained and, for her, deeply depressed at the end of the day when she let herself into the house and thanked God that another twenty-four hours was over.
Susan had a bright fire blazing in the parlor; her slippers were warming, her dinner was laid on a low table beside the easy chair. She flung down her hat and coat in the hall for Susan to collect and dropped on the couch, closing her eyes for a few moments’ rest before eating. While she lay there a ring came at the bell.
She seldom had casual visitors and felt no apprehension as she listened to Susan going to the door; it would be a late delivery from one of the shops or somebody looking for lodgings — the house next door let rooms, and people sometimes mistook the number. She heard a low murmur of voices, which seemed to be unduly prolonged, then the sound of the hall door closing, and the opening of the parlor door behind her head.
“I could do with my dinner now, Susan; you can fetch it if it’s ready.”
As Susan did not immediately answer Bell sat up and looked round. Susan was standing against the closed door of the parlor with a more than usually impassive look on her habitually inexpressive face.
“It is Mr. Timson.”
“What?” said Bell.
It came like a blow on the head. Something had cracked, letting the past ooze through. It could not be true: Harry, coming again into her life, bringing the sordid and forgotten years with him? What was his purpose in coming? There could be only one, she thought bitterly.
For a moment she sat motionless, passing the tip of her tongue along her dry lips.
“All right,” she said presently. “Don’t bring the food up. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
She waited for Susan to go downstairs; then she stood up, collecting and arming herself, and went into the narrow hall.
“Hello, Harry,” she said shortly.
“Hello, Bell.” He stood grinning down at her sheepishly. Bell turned without another word and led the way back into the room. For a moment there was silence; she was taking a cigarette out of the silver box and lighting it; when it was going she turned and barely repressed a start.
She had forgotten Harry; forgotten this shifty, shambling male version of Kathleen, who stood there in a cheap overcoat, conscious of her resentment, grinning it off as he used to do in the old days. A pang of disgusted pity ran through her. Why had he got to look so mean? Why, if he was as down-and-out and wretched as he appeared, couldn’t he put a bold face on it instead of looking out of the corners of his eyes, half cringing, as if he expected her to attack him? So that’s why I’ve had no money for the last two years, she reflected; I thought as much.
“Well, Harry.”
His unsteady eyes took in his surroundings, then returned mockingly to hers.
“’Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o’er,
To find home waiting, full of happy things,”
he quoted with irony. Bell felt herself wince; this was indeed the old Harry, unaltered, unreformed!
“Oh, shut up! And tell me what you’re doing here.”
“So this is where you’ve got to.” He gave a foolish laugh. “I see why you haven’t been bothering me for the money, Bell!”
“It looks as if I’d have been wasting my time if I had.” She allowed her eyes to rest for a moment on his dingy collar, the frayed edges of his cuffs, and looked away, as if they affronted her.
“Well — I suppose there’s no charge for sitting?” He tried to be jaunty and was only pert. She made a gesture with the hand that held the cigarette and kept her own place on the hearthrug. He sat down, fumbled a packet of Capstans out of his coat, and extracted the solitary cigarette it contained. She saw it had been lighted and stubbed out; smothering an exclamation, she pushed the box toward him.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t light a stale cigarette.”
He accepted one of hers with a grimace.
“So that’s the way it is now, is it? Ah well! ‘When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past’ — eh? Remember those fag ends we used to fight over? How you hid ’em where you thought I wouldn’t find ’em?” She felt herself redden as “the street” came back to her, with all its joyless squalor: “the street” to which ten years of marriage to a tippler had reduced her — Bell Lambton of Crowle! — and where she and the children might be living now but for her own efforts. “How’s the kids, Bell?”
“They’re all right.” She wished she had not put their photographs on the top of her writing desk — the last ones, taken a year ago: very smart, in their Towers embroidered jibbahs. She made a movement to step between them and the peering curiosity of Harry but checked herself; it was useless — and, after all, he was their father ...
“How did you find out where we were living?” she bethought herself to ask.
“Oh, I just asked around.” Of course; it would be easy enough. “The street,” then her room at Streatham — one had to leave ones address because of messages. Or he might even have had the nerve to go to Stanley or Albert; they would tell him where she was quickly enough! They had never forgiven her her independence of them all; they would give her away just to spite her.
“Well, Harry, what do you want, now you’re here?” No point in prolonging this distasteful situation.
He seemed not to have heard the question; he had the photographs in his hands, looking at them — almost as if he cared.
“How’s Jo? I’d like to see the kids.”
Something inside her went hard, like iron.
“Well, you won’t see them. If necessary” — characteristically she sailed right into the wind — “I pay you not to see them. That’s what you came for; isn’t it?”
He looked round at her, as if she amused him.
“You were never one for finesse, were you, Bell?”
“Oh, there’s no need to beat about the bush.” She spoke roughly, as one afraid
of her own pity. “I know you —”
“Do you, Bell? Do you?”
A note in his voice checked her; she broke off, stood staring up at him, her lips parted, as though she would have spoken but could not find the words. He put the photographs down quietly and went back to his chair.
“I’ve not come back for money. I’ve come because I’m — lonely.” He said it very simply, looking not at her but at the fire; it was a second or two before she remembered that this was only Harry’s acting. But he had given her a surprise.
“Do you mean your Mrs. What’s-’er-name has left you?”
“Pour être constant, il faut être immortel.” The fair Hannah was nothing if not mortal! She went in less than a year,” he told her, as if this was an inevitable thing, only to be expected in the circumstances. She was angry with herself for finding pathos in the grin he gave her, displaying the dilapidated teeth which she remembered, once, as fine and even as her own.
‘Well, Harry ... I’m sorry,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, that’s all right.” He was offhanded in his disclaimer of pity on that score. “I expect I’d have found it a bit stiff, keeping the four of you!”
“I hope you don’t imagine you ever kept us!”
“I gave you what you asked for,” he pointed out truthfully. “At least I gave it while I’d got it.”
“And now you’ve not got enough to keep yourself.”
“I hadn’t,” he corrected her. “You know what it’s been like, looking for work, since the war was over.”
“Knowing you, I don’t suppose you looked very hard.”
“Well, I’ve got a job now — with the old people,” he told her patiently. “They’ve knocked my salary down, but that’s how it goes these days; there’s too many after the jobs to stand out for money. I’m starting again next week.”
“I’m glad of that.” She tried to force some warmth into her voice. She looked round the room, wondering why she felt frightened-much more frightened of this mild, reasonable Harry than of the one she remembered. “What about a drink?” She said it desperately, needing one herself. She got the whisky out of a cabinet, not looking at him as she poured it out. “There you are. Well — cheers to your job.”
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