"Darling, you're feverish. You shouldn't have got up."
"I felt better-all those pills I took; it's killed the pain, but it's made me dopey." She gave a slight, uncertain laugh, her hands pushed the pale, shining hair back from her forehead. "Don't fuss about me, Richard. Give Dr. Knox a drink."
"What about you? A spot of brandy? It would do you good."
She made a quick grimace:
"No, just lime and soda for me."
She thanked him with a smile as he brought her glass to her.
"You'll never die of drink," he said.
For a moment her smile stiffened.
She said:
"Who knows?"
"I know. Knox, what about you? Soft drink? Whisky?"
"Brandy and soda, if I may."
Her eyes were on the glass as he held it.
She said suddenly: "We could go away. Shall we go away, Richard?"
"Away from the villa? From the island?"
"That's what I meant."
Wilding poured his own whisky, came back to stand behind her chair.
"We'll go anywhere you please, dearest. Anywhere and at any time. To-night if you like."
She sighed, a long, deep sigh.
"You're so-good to me. Of course I don't want to leave here. Anyway, how could you? You've got the estate to run. You're making headway at last."
"Yes, but that doesn't really matter. You come first."
"I might go away-by myself-just for a little."
"No, we'll go together. I want you to feel looked after, someone beside you-always."
"You think I need a keeper?" She began to laugh. It was slightly uncontrolled laughter. She stopped suddenly, hand to her mouth.
"I want you to feel-always-that I'm there," said Wilding.
"Oh, I do feel it-I do."
"We'll go to Italy. Or to England, if you like. Perhaps you're home-sick for England."
"No," she said. "We won't go anywhere. We'll stay here. It would be the same wherever we went. Always the same."
She slumped a little in her chair. Her eyes stared sombrely ahead of her. Then suddenly she looked up over her shoulder, up into Wilding's puzzled, worried face.
"Dear Richard," she said. "You are so wonderful to me. So patient always."
He said softly: "So long as you understand that to me nothing matters but you."
"I know that-oh, I do know it."
He went on:
"I hoped that you would be happy here, but I do realise that there's very little-distraction."
"There's Dr. Knox," she said.
Her head turned swiftly towards the guest, and a sudden gay, impish smile flashed at him. He thought: 'What a gay, what an enchanting creature she could be-has been.'
She went on: "And as for the island and the villa, it's an earthly paradise. You said so once, and I believed you, and it's true. It is an earthly paradise."
"Ah!"
"But I can't quite take it. Don't you think, Dr. Knox"-the slight staccato tempo returned-"that one has to be rather a strong character to stand up to paradise? Like those old Primitives, the blessed sitting in a row under the trees, wearing crowns-I always thought the crowns looked so heavy-casting down their golden crowns before the glassy sea-that's a hymn, isn't it? Perhaps God let them cast down the crowns because of the weight. It's heavy to wear a crown all the time. One can have too much of everything, can't one? I think-" She got up, stumbled a little. "I think, perhaps, I'll go back to bed. I think you're right, Richard, perhaps I am feverish. But crowns are heavy. Being here is like a dream come true, only I'm not in the dream any more. I ought to be somewhere else, but I don't know where. If only-"
She crumpled very suddenly, and Llewellyn, who had been waiting for it, caught her in time, relinquishing her a moment later to Wilding.
"Better get her back to her bed," he advised crisply.
"Yes, yes. And then I'll telephone to the doctor."
"She'll sleep it off," said Llewellyn.
Richard Wilding looked at him doubtfully.
Llewellyn said: "Let me help you."
The two men carried the unconscious girl through the door by which she had entered the room. A short way along a corridor brought them to the open door of a bedroom. They laid her gently on the big carved wooden bed, with its hangings of rich dark brocade. Wilding went out into the corridor and called: "Maria-Maria."
Llewellyn looked swiftly round the room.
He went through a curtained alcove into a bathroom, looked into the glass-panelled cupboard there, then came back to the bedroom.
Wilding was calling again: "Maria," impatiently.
Llewellyn moved over to the dressing-table.
A moment or two later Wilding came into the room, followed by a short, dark woman. The latter moved quickly across the room to the bed and uttered an exclamation as she bent over the recumbent girl.
Wilding said curtly:
"See to your mistress. I will ring up the doctor."
"It is not necessary, se?or. I know what to do. By tomorrow morning she will be herself again."
Wilding, shaking his head, left the room reluctantly.
Llewellyn followed him, but paused in the doorway.
He said: "Where does she keep it?"
The woman looked at him; her eyelids flickered.
Then, almost involuntarily, her gaze shifted to the wall behind his head. He turned. A small picture hung there, a landscape in the manner of Corot. Llewellyn raised it from its nail. Behind it was a small wall safe of the old-fashioned type, where women used to keep their jewels, but which would hold little protection against a modern cracksman. The key was in the lock. Llewellyn pulled it gently open and glanced inside. He nodded and closed it again. His eyes met those of Maria in perfect comprehension.
He went out of the room and joined Wilding, who was just replacing the telephone on its cradle.
"The doctor is out, at a confinement, I understand."
"I think," said Llewellyn, choosing his words carefully, "that Maria knows what to do. She has, I think, seen Lady Wilding like this before."
"Yes… yes… Perhaps you are right. She is very devoted to my wife."
"I saw that."
"Everybody loves her. She inspires love-love, and the wish to protect. All these people here have a great feeling for beauty, and especially for beauty in distress."
"And yet they are, in their way, greater realists than the Anglo-Saxon will ever be."
"Possibly."
"They don't shirk facts."
"Do we?"
"Very often. That is a beautiful room of your wife's. Do you know what struck me about it? There was no smell of perfume such as many women delight in. Instead, there was only the fragrance of lavender and eau-de-Cologne."
Richard Wilding nodded.
"I know. I have come to associate lavender with Shirley. It brings back to me my days as a boy, the smell of lavender in my mother's linen-cupboard. The fine white linen, and the little bags of lavender that she made and put there, clean, pure, all the freshness of spring. Simple country things."
He sighed and looked up to see his guest regarding him with a look he could not understand.
"I must go," said Llewellyn, holding out his hand.
Chapter Seven
"So you still come here?"
Knox delayed his question until the waiter had gone away.
Lady Wilding was silent for a moment. To-night she was not staring out at the harbour. Instead she was looking down into her glass. It held a rich golden liquid.
"Orange juice," she said.
"I see. A gesture."
"Yes. It helps-to make a gesture."
"Oh, undoubtedly."
She said: "Did you tell him that you had seen me here?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It would have caused him pain. It would have caused you pain. And he didn't ask me."
"If he had asked you, would you have told him?"
&nbs
p; "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the simpler one is over things, the better."
She sighed.
"I wonder if you understand at all?"
"I don't know."
"You do see that I can't hurt him? You do see how good he is? How he believes in me? How he thinks only of me?"
"Oh yes. I see all that. He wants to stand between you and all sorrow, all evil."
"But that's too much."
"Yes, it's too much."
"One gets into things. And then, one can't get out. One pretends-day after day one pretends. And then one gets tired, one wants to shout: 'Stop loving me, stop looking after me, stop worrying about me, stop caring and watching.' " She clenched both hands. "I want to be happy with Richard. I want to! Why can't I? Why must I sicken of it all?"
"Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love."
"Yes, just that. It's me. It's my fault."
"Why did you marry him?"
"Oh, that!" Her eyes widened. "That's simple. I fell in love with him."
"I see."
"It was, I suppose, a kind of infatuation. He has great charm, and he's sexually attractive. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"And he was romantically attractive too. A dear old man, who's known me all my life, warned me. He said to me: 'Have an affair with Richard, but don't marry him.' He was quite right. You see, I was very unhappy, and Richard came along. I-day-dreamed. Love and Richard and an island and moonlight. It helped, and it didn't hurt anybody. Now I've got the dream-but I'm not the me I was in the dream. I'm only the me who dreamed it-and that's no good."
She looked across the table, straight into his eyes.
"Can I ever become the me of the dream? I'd like to."
"Not if it was never the real you."
"I could go away-but where? Not back into the past because that's all gone, broken up. I'd have to start again; I don't know how or where. And, anyway, I couldn't hurt Richard. He's already been hurt too much."
"Has he?"
"Yes, that woman he married. She was just a natural tart. Very attractive and quite good-natured, but completely amoral. He didn't see her like that."
"He wouldn't."
"And she let him down-badly-and he was terribly cut up about it. He blamed himself, thought he'd failed her in some way. He's no blame for her, you know, only pity."
"He has too much pity."
"Can one have too much pity?"
"Yes, it makes you unable to see straight."
"Besides," he added, "it's an insult."
"What do you mean?"
"It implies just what the Pharisee's prayer implied. 'Lord, I thank Thee I am not as this man.' "
"Aren't you ever sorry for anyone?"
"Yes. I'm human. But I'm afraid of it."
"What harm could it do?"
"It might lead to action."
"Would that be wrong?"
"It might have very bad results."
"For you?"
"No, no, not for me. For the other person."
"Then what should one do if one's sorry for a person?"
"Leave them where they belong-in God's hands."
"That sounds terribly implacable-and harsh."
"It's not nearly so dangerous as yielding to facile pity."
She leaned towards him.
"Tell me, are you sorry for me-at all?"
"I am trying not to be."
"Why not?"
"In case I should help you to feel sorry for yourself."
"You don't think I am-sorry for myself?"
"Are you?"
"No," she said slowly. "Not really. I've got all-mixed up somehow, and that must be my own fault."
"It usually is, but in your case it may not be."
"Tell me-you're wise, you go about preaching to people-what ought I to do?"
"You know."
She looked at him and suddenly, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a gay, gallant laugh.
"Yes," she said. "I know. Quite well. Fight."
Part 4. As It Was in the Beginning-1956
Chapter One
Llewellyn looked up at the building before he entered it.
It was drab like the street in which it stood. Here, in this quarter of London, war damage and general decay still reigned The effect was depressing. Llewellyn himself felt depressed. The errand which he had come to perform was a painful one. He did not exactly shrink from it, but he was aware that he would be glad when he had discharged it to the best of his ability.
He sighed, squared his shoulders, and went up a short Bight of steps and through a swing door.
The inside of the building was busy, but busy in an orderly and controlled fashion. Hurrying but disciplined feet sped along the corridors. A young woman in a dull blue uniform paused beside him.
"What can I do for you?"
"I wish to see Miss Franklin."
"I'm sorry. Miss Franklin can't see anyone this morning. I will take you to the secretary's office."
He insisted gently on seeing Miss Franklin.
"It is important," he said, and added: "If you will please give her this letter."
The young woman took him into a minute waiting-room and sped away. Five minutes later a round woman with a kindly face and an eager manner came to him.
"I'm Miss Harrison, Miss Franklin's secretary. I'm afraid you will have to wait a few minutes. Miss Franklin is with one of the children who is just coming out of the anaesthetic after an operation."
Llewellyn thanked her and began to ask questions. She brightened at once, and talked eagerly about the Worley Foundation for Sub-Normal Children.
"It's quite an old foundation, you know. Dates back to 1840: Nathaniel Worley, our founder, was a mill-owner." Her voice ran on. "So unfortunate-the funds dwindled, investments brought in so much less… and rising costs… of course there were faults of administration. But since Miss Franklin has been superintendent…"
Her face lighted up, the speed of her words increased.
Miss Franklin was clearly the sun in her heaven. Miss Franklin had cleaned the Augean stables, Miss Franklin had reorganised this and that, Miss Franklin had battled with authority and won, and now, equally clearly, Miss Franklin reigned supreme, and all was for the best in the best of possible worlds. Llewellyn wondered why women's enthusiasms for other women always sounded so pitifully crude. He doubted if he should like the efficient Miss Franklin. She was, he thought, of the order of Queen Bees. Other women buzzed round them, and they waxed and throve on the power thus accorded to them.
Then at last he was taken upstairs and along a corridor, and Miss Harrison knocked at a door and stood aside, and motioned to him to go in to what was evidently the Holy of Holies-Miss Franklin's private office.
She was sitting behind a desk, and she looked frail and very tired.
He stared at her in awe and amazement as she got up and came towards him.
He said, just under his breath: "You…"
A faint, puzzled frown came between her brows, those delicately marked brows that he knew so well. It was the same face-pale, delicate, the wide sad mouth, the unusual setting of the dark eyes, the hair that sprang back from the temples, triumphantly, like wings. A tragic face, he thought, yet that generous mouth was made for laughter, that severe, proud face might be transformed by tenderness.
She said gently: "Dr. Llewellyn? My brother-in-law wrote to me that you would be coming. It's very good of you."
"I'm afraid the news of your sister's death must have been a great shock to you."
"Oh, it was. She was so young."
Her voice faltered for one moment, but she had herself well under control. He thought to himself: "She is disciplined, has disciplined herself."
There was something nun-like about her clothes. She wore plain black with a little white at the throat.
She said quietly:
"I wish it could have been I who died-not her. But pe
rhaps one always wishes that."
"Not always. Only-if one cares very much-or if one's own life has some quality of the unbearable about it."
The dark eyes opened wider. She looked at him questioningly, she said:
"You're really Llewellyn Knox, aren't you?"
"I was. I call myself Dr. Murray Llewellyn. It saves the endless repetition of condolences, makes it less embarrassing for other people and for me."
"I've seen pictures of you in the papers, but I don't think I would have recognised you."
"No. Most people don't, now. There are other faces in the news-and perhaps, too, I've shrunk"
"Shrunk?"
He smiled.
"Not physically, but in importance."
He went on:
"You know that I've brought your sister's small personal possessions. Your brother-in-law thought you would like to have them. They are at my hotel. Perhaps you will dine with me there, or if you prefer, I will deliver them to you here?"
"I shall be glad to have them. I want to hear all you can tell me about-about Shirley. It is so long since I saw her last. Nearly three years. I still can't believe-that she's dead."
"I know how you feel."
"I want to hear all you can tell me about her, but-but-don't say consoling things to me. You still believe in God, I suppose. Well, I don't? I'm sorry if that seems a crude thing to say, but you'd better understand what I feel. If there is a God, He is cruel and unjust."
"Because He let your sister die?"
"There's no need to discuss it. Please don't talk religion to me. Tell me about Shirley. Even now I don't understand how the accident happened."
"She was crossing the street and a heavy lorry knocked her down and ran over her. She was killed instantly. She did not suffer any pain."
"That's what Richard wrote me. But I thought-perhaps he was trying to be kind, to spare me. He is like that."
"Yes, he is like that. But I am not. You can take it as the truth that your sister was killed outright, and did not suffer."
"How did it happen?"
"It was late at night. Your sister had been sitting in one of the open-air caf?s facing the harbour. She left the cafe, crossed the road without looking, and the lorry came round the corner and caught her."
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