As Anna turned, Miss Willy screamed and clapped her hands.
“Cyril! Cyril! Bad, wicked bird! Anna!”
Anna was already at the door, and the baffled Cyril retreated to his chair back with a scream of rage.
“I must go,” said Anna breathlessly. She blew a kiss and slipped through the door. “Dear Miss Willy, good-by! I’ll send Isobel back.”
She shut the door.
Miss Willy gazed at Cyril with fond reproach.
“Mother’s very, very worst boy!” she said.
Cyril screamed again.
XXXIII
Car Fairfax ’s Diary:
(September 25th; but the Diary was not written up until later.)
Nothing happened all day until the evening. That is to say, I met Fay on the doorstep. I can’t remember where I’d been, and it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid I rather barged past her, because she seemed to want to stop and speak, and I was still angry. She had said some perfectly beastly things about Isobel which I haven’t written down. I was trying to forget about them, but I hadn’t got as far as passing the time of day with her just as if nothing had happened. Afterwards I felt as if I’d been rather a beast, because she was looking most awfully ill-white as a sheet, with black saucers under her eyes, and her hat was crooked. I don’t think she was bothering about how she looked; and that’s not a bit like Fay. I didn’t think about any of this at the time, but it came back later on.
I walked down to Putney, and got to Olding Crescent at about a quarter to eight, just in case Isobel was early. Ever since her telegram came I had been racking my brains to think of any possible reason that would make her ask me to meet her like this, but I couldn’t think of one. I was afraid she must be in trouble, but I couldn’t think what sort of trouble it could possibly be. I kept going over all sorts of things in my mind.
It was a most awfully dark night. The whole sky was covered with the even darkness of clouds that are hanging so low that they seem to be a ceiling over your head. It wasn’t raining, and it didn’t rain; but there was the feeling of rain in the air. Every now and then the bushes, and the great sweeping branches of the trees overhead, moved and rustled in a sudden wind that was wet against one’s face. The street-lamps gave hardly any light, and the shadow under the wall was as black as coal.
I walked up and down. I was going to see Isobel! Then I laughed, because I certainly shouldn’t be able to see her unless I marched her up to one of the lamps and stood her there with her head well up facing it. And then I stopped laughing, because, of course, when you love any one very much, you don’t just see them with your eyes.
I walked up and down for about three-quarters of an hour, but the time didn’t seem at all long. Waiting for Isobel to come was like watching a wonderful tide of happiness rise. It seemed to come up all round me with bright, shining waves. I hadn’t been so happy for years, and I couldn’t help wondering whether she was happy too. I ought not to have let myself get into that state of mind. I thought of that afterwards, but at the time I just thought about Isobel.
And then she came. I must have been waiting for three-quarters of an hour, and no one had passed at all either coming or going. Olding Crescent is the loneliest place I have ever been in. There are houses all along one side of it, but no one ever seems to go into them or come out, and the windows do not let out a single spark of light. So when I heard a footstep, I was quite sure that it was the footstep I was waiting for.
She came from the direction of the main road, passed the lamp, and then stood hesitating. I could see her, and yet I couldn’t. What I saw was a coat and skirt, and shoes and stocking, and a scarf, and a little close hat, all dark like the shadows of clothes. But I couldn’t see Isobel herself, because she was a shadow too. I felt as if I should see her better if I didn’t have to look at the shadows.
I came across the road, and she ran to me and slipped a hand through my arm.
“Car-” she said in a sweet, breathless voice, and we went back across the road into the black dark where the trees hung over the wall. Then-I don’t know how it happened, but of course it must have been my fault-that shining tide of Isobel just carried me away. She was so near, and I could feel her trembling a little, and she pressed against me. And the thing I knew I had my arms round her and we were kissing each other.
I didn’t feel as if it could be true. I never thought I should kiss Isobel really. I kissed her once in a dream, and it nearly killed me to wake up and know that it could never come true. I don’t know how long we stood there without speaking. I had nothing to say, because I felt as if Isobel must know every thought I had, or ever could have.
She had put her arms round my neck, and after we had kissed she leaned her head against my shoulder and we stood like that, drowned fathoms deep in happiness. I didn’t think about the past, or the future, or what we were going to do, or even why we were there. I’ve heard people talk about the world standing still, but now I know what they mean. The world stood still for us, and time went by.
I came very slowly back to realize what I had done. Then I said her name, and she said mine. I didn’t know that my name could sound like that. It carried me off my feet again, but I made myself come back. I said,
“You mustn’t.”
And Isobel said, “Why?” and then, “Oh, foolish Car, don’t you know-”
“We mustn’t,” I said. “I-I’ve no right. I’m-a brute. I didn’t mean-”
Isobel said things I can’t write down. She said she had been very unhappy. She said she wasn’t engaged to Giles Heron. She said she had cared for me always. It didn’t seem possible. I felt as if I had walked straight into a dream, and that presently I should wake up and find that it wasn’t true. I said this to Isobel, and she said,
“Oh, Car darling, it’s my dream too, and I don’t think we shall ever wake up.”
I don’t know how long it was before I realized that it must be getting late. She hadn’t told me why she had asked me to meet her, and it didn’t seem to matter much; it was just one of the things that had got left behind when we went into the dream together.
I said, “It’s getting late.”
And she said, “It doesn’t matter-I’m staying with Aunt Carrie.”
And then she told me that they’d had a burglary at Linwood House, and that the Queen Anne bow had been taken. She said my uncle was dreadfully upset. And she went on to beg me to make up our quarrel. She said any one could see how much he wanted me back.
I told her what I had told her before, that I couldn’t take the first step. I couldn’t get her to understand about that- but he sent me away, and I think it’s up to him to say if he wants me back…
“There’s the little Manor House,” said Isobel. She put her head against my shoulder. “Car, I’ve always wanted to live there. It-it would be heavenly.”
I came out of the dream and shut the door behind me.
“My darling,” I said, “the only house we shall ever have is a castle in the air. You oughtn’t to have come here, and we ought not to have met-and the best thing you can do is to go back to Linwood and forget.”
“After this?” said Isobel, and she kissed me.
I put her away.
“Yes, my darling,” I said.
She laughed. She has such a pretty laugh, but it had a sad sound in it then.
‘’I’m not very clever at forgetting, Car.”
“You must.”
“I’ve tried for three years-no, that’s not true-I’ve never tried to forget you, and I never shall. I’d rather be unhappy-I’d rather break my heart. But it won’t break unless you forget me, or go away where I can’t come. You mustn’t do that again. My heart did nearly break three years ago when you went away without a word. It ached so dreadfully. Oh, Car, you won’t make it ache that way again-will you?”