THE TERRACES OF NIGHT

by Margery Lawrence

  As she packed up the final batch of their possessions on the last day in the shabby little furnished flat in Plymouth that had seen so much of their married life, Mrs Bellasis felt a fierce surge of triumph seize her. It had come at last—they were leaving the sea and all that it meant! Now, at last, she would have her husband, her adored husband, with his blue, honest eyes; his merry laugh; his short, stocky, typically sailor’s figure, all to herself, for all time. . . . She had beaten the sea!

  She glanced out of the window—their apartment overlooked the bay—and laughed aloud in triumph! There it lay, wide and flat and grey, monotonous, that sinister waste that mysteriously held so much of her husband’s heart . . . but tomorrow it would be left behind! So far behind that they would forget that it had ever existed. . . . Yet for many nights after they came down to ‘Forest Farm’ (so called for its proximity to a great rambling belt of woodland), even Kitty Bellasis found it difficult to sleep, missing for the first time in her life the purring murmur of the waves along the shore. The voice of the sea that lulls the world to sleep.

  But it was many a long day now since she had even thought of those days; and today, all unexpectedly, as she stood drumming her fingers against the pane, the remembrance popped up in her mind, like a jack-in-the-box, out of the void. . . . Then, smiling, she realised the reason, and laughed at herself for a fool. Of course. . . . It was the wind sweeping the forest! For two or three days now it had been blowing steadily, now light, now strong, and as it swept the surface of the heaving plain of green, there were times when one might almost think one heard the sea; the hollow, distant roar of it, dying away and returning again, ceaselessly, eternally. . . . But even as she listened the wind dropped to a mere whisper, and the sound died away.

  All the farm portion of the pretty little house lay at the back, surrounded by a substantial wall. The house itself fronted on to a large old-fashioned garden—it was a long, low structure, whitewashed, with a tiled roof weathered to a dozen shades of red and brown and green, and boasting several clusters of quaint and interesting chimney stacks.

  The garden was certainly a credit to its new owners. A pergola and summer shelter gave token of the Commander’s handiness with carpenter’s tools, while a wilderness of roses, Mrs Bellasis’ particular care, ran all down one side of the charming little pleasance, and beds of gay ‘annuals’ vied with the window-boxes that bordered each window in lending the white house a lavish trimming of colour and scent. The whole group of buildings, garden and all, stood, as it were, at the far end of a ‘peninsula’ of downland that ran up like an inquiring finger into the wide green sweep of the forest, so that it was both sheltered and open to the sunshine at one and the same time.

  Forest Farm was certainly a charming little establishment, and one to please the heart of any woman. Stock and crops were doing well; the ‘factor’ was a reliable man, his wife a perfect cook; and the summer was for once being all an English summer should be and seldom is. There would have been no reason for Mrs Bellasis’ somewhat hard little mouth to tighten as it did, as she saw at last, against the dark wall of the woods just beyond the white gate, two figures approaching. Her husband and old Pen Rigby, square and bluff as ever, still wearing the naval blue he clung to even when on shore. . . . Her mouth tightened further, and she frowned on seeing it. The only fly in her ointment, the only cloud on her serene happiness, were these occasional ‘reminders’ of old days, after which her husband was always restless, irritable for hours and sometimes days.

  Pen was in particular a visitor she dreaded. He would sport that uniform redolent of old times; would chat all the time of naval ‘shop’, chaff his old companion for having turned ‘landlubber’, and so on—and all that was inevitably disturbing. Acidly she wished he had not come, as she wished every time one of Bellasis’ ex-colleagues visited him. . . . But there was no time for thought or speculation. With a hasty ring at the bell as an indication to Mrs Jenks to serve lunch, she shook her pretty spotted pink-and-white linen frock into place, and as the men entered the wide French windows, came forward holding out her hand with the usual conventional smile of welcome.

  Captain Rigby greeted her with bluff courtesy, commented admiringly upon the garden, her looks, her husband’s health, and assented eagerly to her suggestion of immediate lunch. Pecking at her share of the meal, a faint frown lurking between her alert hazel eyes, Kitty Bellasis listened as the two men talked; Rigby with his mouth full, eager, enthusiastic, as his type invariably is; Bellasis more quiet, self-contained, less of a talker than a listener. . . .

  ‘Charmin’ little place you’ve got down here,’ boomed the big man through a mouthful of cutlet. ‘But I’m damned if I can place you as a country gent, my boy! Though I suppose by now you’re used to it—don’t miss the sea at all?’

  Bellasis glanced quickly up. There was a faint gleam in his eyes, and he opened his mouth; then he glanced at his wife, and the words he meant to speak changed on his lips to something else.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ he said, with a faintly embarrassed laugh. ‘After all, we’ve been here—how long, Kitty?’

  ‘Three years!’

  Her tone held a faint edge, and Bellasis glanced unhappily at her before he replied. His reply was obviously meant to conciliate—to attempt to square, as it were, the truth with what would be palatable to his wife’s ears.

  ‘Er—yes. Three years. Three years do make a difference to one’s feelings, of course—and I’ve become quite the country squireen, as you can see!’

  He laughed again, awkwardly, a flush mounting to his smooth brown cheek. At forty-four Norman Bellasis looked but little older, albeit a trifle squarer, more stolid, than he had looked at twenty-four; and Kitty Bellasis’ heart yearned inarticulately over him as she watched him. Rigby bluffly interrupted, reaching for a fresh piece of toast.

  ‘Squireen be hanged! You’re a cut-and-dried tarry-back, Bell, and always will be; nobody’ll ever mistake you for anything else but a sailor!’

  How often had people made that remark, thought the listening woman venomously. The fact that it was true made the stab all the sharper. . . . Rigby continued, all unconscious of the fury he was creating in the bosom of the quiet little woman at his side.

  ‘You never ought to ha’ left the sea, you know! Headquarters are always askin’ after you. . . . I believe you could get another billet any time you wanted. Honestly, what you’re doing, a damn’ bluewater-man like you, settling down to grow roses and turnips and pinch pigs to see if they’re fat enough for market, I’m blessed if I can think. . . .’

  ‘My husband,’ said Kitty Bellasis acidly, ‘left the Navy mainly because I asked him to!’

  She was sitting very upright, a pink flush on either cheek and a dangerous glint in her eyes. The hint was not lost upon Rigby, imperceptive as he undoubtedly was. With a muttered apology he changed the subject, and nothing more was said about the sea. . . .

  Unless, perhaps, during the men’s subsequent wanderings about the farm, whither, disliking the effect of mud and dung upon her pretty slippers, Mrs Bellasis could not make up her mind to accompany them. Devoutly she hoped the matter had not been raised again. It would be too bad if after all her careful work, after these three years during which, apparently, Norman Bellasis had settled gradually down into the pleasant, monotonous life of a country gentleman, they were to be upset, all because of a casual remark made by a breezy insensitive fool in naval gold and blue!

  It was late—between six and seven o’clock—when the two friends came in at last. There was only time for a brief cocktail and a biscuit before Norman Bellasis brought out the smart new Humber that last season’s successful crops had brought them, and packing his stout friend into the little seat beside him, set out for the station to catch the London train. It was perhaps unfortunate that the very last remark Captain Rigby made, as he waved a hand in farewell to his hostess, standing in the doorway in the slanting light of the dying sunshine, should have been flavoured with the one
subject she disliked to hear.

  ‘Listen to the way the wind’s getting up in the forest out there! Sounds just like the sea, doesn’t it?’

  * * * * *

  That evening Norman Bellasis was peculiarly silent. Always these visits—indeed, any reminder of his old life—disturbed and upset him for a time, but tonight there was a restless quality in his silence that faintly puzzled and distressed his wife. As they sat after dinner, each side of the flaming logs in the pretty old-world brick fireplace—despite the warmth of the June days, the evenings still demanded fires—the lamplight that they both preferred to electricity casting a mellow glow over old oak furniture, cosy velvet hangings, cushions, piano, all the rest of the little personal plenishings that they had chosen together, she eyed him furtively, wistfully, noting an added line or two in his pleasant sun-tanned face, an extra brushing of grey, like silver powder, each side of his crisp brown hair. He had aged during the last three years. Rebelliously she told herself that he would have aged anyway; that they were neither of them growing any younger. . . . But she could not gainsay the fact that he had aged more markedly and speedily since he had left the Navy!

  While he had been at sea he had remained a boy despite the mounting years. Now he was definitely a middle-aged man, charming, affectionate, attentive, but lacking the gay, youthful element that, like the flame inside a lamp, makes all the difference between a thing really youthfully alive, and that same thing merely tamely existing. He was now—and she realised it for the first time tonight with grim and unmistakable force—he was a lamp with the flame turned down. . . .

  Rising on a sudden irresistible impulse of panic she plumped herself down on her knees beside him, where he sat quietly reading, a large album open before him and, disregarding his exclamation of half-shy surprise—for he was an undemonstrative man, and she was not given to outward displays of affection as a rule—put her arms round his neck and held him close. Embarrassed, he laughed, and patted her on the back as he kissed her—she lay halfway across the book in his lap, hence he could not close it, but it did not escape her quick perception that he had made a clumsy, involuntary movement to do so. She glanced down at it—and her heart stood still; then moved onward with a faintly increased pulsation. It was an old book of sea-pictures. Postcards, large professional photographs, mere personal ‘snaps’ taken by himself or others . . . she could not speak for a moment, and he spoke, hastily, half-apologetically:

  ‘Seeing old Rigby made me want to look up these rubbishy things, Kit. Just—just to remind me, you know.’

  Crouched back on her heels, her small oval face in red shadow as she sat with her back to the blazing logs, she looked at him sideways. Her voice was bitter as gall.

  ‘Must you always want—reminding, then?’

  The sailor flushed, miserably enough.

  ‘I don’t know. Oh, Kit,’ he paused and spread his hands vaguely, helplessly. ‘It’s so damn difficult to explain! We’ve had this out so often. . . .’

  She rose to her feet and went over to the window. Pulling the heavy velvet curtain aside, she stood looking out towards the forest, trying to regain her temper. Angry, frightened in some dim undefined way, she yet knew that she must keep her temper, or she was lost . . . for a dramatic moment she stood still, striving for balance, for self-control, staring out at the outline of the forest-clad hills, like the line of a shadowy ocean heaving in dark irregular billows against the dusky star-patterned blueness of the sky. The restless wind had sprung up again, and through the window, now the heavy curtains were pulled aside, its voice sang, hollow, thunderous, among the distant tree tops . . . an arm stole tentatively about her still slender waist.

  ‘There’s going to be a storm, if I’m any judge of wind!’ said Bellasis’ voice behind her.

  She glanced up and managed a smile at his wistful anxious face at her shoulder. Like the small boy he so much resembled, he had come stealing up, longing to kiss and make friends, ready to do anything to bring the light to her eyes again—on impulse she laid her head against his shoulder, sighing, for the moment tranquillised. But his next words drove repose from her mind once more—set it afresh on its old course, angry, restless, frightened of she knew not what. . . .

  ‘Sounds just like the sound of the sea, doesn’t it?’

  Releasing his clasp of her waist, Bellasis threw the windows widely apart, and stepped out upon the narrow paved veranda that ran across the front of the house. On the opening of the windows, the voice of the wind suddenly arose and rushed at them, shouting, triumphant—it had risen considerably since the afternoon, and indeed, in its singing roar, hollow, resounding, did undeniably resemble, and that with uncanny strength, the voice of the eternal sea, breaking on distant shores. Alone, triumphant, immortal. . . .

  There was a tang of coming rain in the air, that brought with it a faint unpleasant chill—a chill, again, resembling the dank chilliness that precedes a storm at sea. With a curious dim fear stirring her heart, Kitty Bellasis stood watching her husband standing motionless upon the darkened lawn, his face turned towards the forest, his greying hair ruffled by the fingers of the wind, his eyes wide, remotely happy, as she had seen them so often in the old days, when, his shore leave over, he kissed her, turned on his heel and went away—back to the sea!

  A gust of anger rose suddenly in the woman’s breast, and took possession of her. Anger against herself, as much as anything else, in truth. It was, of course, mere chance, coupled with the presence of old Pen Rigby and his eternal talk of the sea and sea-faring things—that the ordinary wind that so often harried the forest and the downs should, this night of all nights, remind them both so strongly of the sea, that bogey she had dreamt laid, forgotten for good and all! The wind went roaring tumultuously through the tree-tops, banging and thundering in the hollows with a sound like Gatling guns, ruffling the leaves sideways in sudden flurries till their silver undersides looked like breaking foam on a lee-shore . . . muttering darkly in the distance, then coming nearer to break in crashing thunders about their ears as a storm breaks about a ship at sea . . . there she was again, comparing everything with the sea! A perfectly ordinary storm was rising, such as she had heard rise an indefinite number of times before, that was all. . . . She shivered suddenly and set her teeth, resolute.

  This was mere nerviness! The result of worrying, the effect of suggestion, of one sort and another, upon both herself and her husband she adored—above all she must not add to it herself, or that would drive the rivets in still farther. She must drive away again, and this time for good, the green ghost that seemed still to haunt them! Throwing back her head, she braced herself, and, stepping out upon the veranda, slipped a possessive hand through her husband’s arms.

  ‘Sounds just like the sea, as you say, dear!’ No use in funking all mention of the subject—that was no way to fight a thing. ‘Almost like old times, hearing it at our door!’

  He turned a face curiously blank towards her. For a moment it seemed as if he neither saw nor heard her; as though he were withdrawn, as it were, into some distant world of the spirit where his soul wandered, remote, detached, ecstatic . . . then suddenly he was himself again, bluff, pleasant Commander Bellasis, R.N., standing outside his charming country house on a stormy night, with his adored wife beside him, her hair blown abroad, like her filmy black chiffon skirts. Instantly he was all solicitude for her, lest she catch cold, spoil her frock, have her hair disturbed, and she smiled a triumphant smile as he guided her indoors, shut the windows once more, and drew the shutters close—and the voice of the wind, that was so like the voice of the sea she hated, faded almost into nothingness.

  But not for long. Almost as soon as they had settled down to the nightly game of cards with which they invariably finished an evening, Jenks, the ‘factor’ who with his wife ran the small household, came in with a long face portending trouble.

  It appeared that there was a bad storm rising, and a gust of wind had just caught the back door, and banged it off it
s hinges very near, so that they couldn’t fasten it—not to feel safe-like about it. . . . Even as he spoke, as if to confirm his words there came a fresh gust. A tinkling crash on the veranda betokened the fall of a loose tile from the ancient roof, the windows rattled furiously, and a puff of purple wood-smoke flared out into the warm room like a fairy balloon. Frowning—he hated to have his game of cards disturbed—the Commander rose and trod heavily out of the room after his henchman, while Kitty, chin on hand, stared sombrely after him. This wind—it was getting on her nerves . . . as he left the room her husband had left the door open, and through the open back door she could hear the wind again.

  The house was a wide oblong, not a square, and the back door only just at the end of a short passage beyond the small entrance-hall—she could hear her husband’s voice raised, discussing, arguing, hear the rougher voice of Jenks, as they wrangled over the broken hinge, but stronger than all she heard now the wind, risen, it seemed, even in the short half-hour since they had come in, to thrice its original force! Like a ranging animal it roamed the house, thrusting its fingers into cranny and hole, puffing down the chimneys, rattling the windows, sniffing under lintels, and all the time singing hoarsely aloud with that strangely borrowed voice—that voice that in all her happy three years in Dorset, Mrs Bellasis had never heard before. The voice of the sea. . . .