The arch of the grate, black-shining; the flames, and Dorothy Starberth's face at the inquest-never turned towards him. There were too many rumours. Chairs rasping on the sanded floor; the voices that struck across the inquest-room sharply, like voices inside a stone jug. She had gone home, afterwards, in an old car driven by Payne, with its side curtains down. He had watched the dust that followed its jolting passage, and he had seen faces peering out slyly from the windows of houses along the way. Gossip had been a sly postman tapping at every door. The damned fools, he thought, and suddenly felt very miserable.
But the rustle of the shower deepened, a few drops hissing in the fire. He stared at the paper across his knee — those inane verses he had copied from the paper she had shown him. He had mentioned them to Dr. Fell, but the old lexicographer had not seen them yet. Decently, in view of the turmoil and later the funeral, they had been able to drop the puzzle for the time being. Yet now Martin Starberth was tucked away, out there under the rain… Rampole shivered. Platitudes went through his brain; he knew them now to be terrifyingly true. And other words.
"Though worms destroy this body…the strong, calm words uttered under an empty sky. Again in his memory the earth fell upon the coffin, thrown as with the motion of a sower of grain. He saw the sodden willows tossing against a grey horizon, and the sing-song intonation of the service was as weirdly moving as when once-long ago, as a child — he had heard at twilight distant voices singing "Auld Lang Syne."
What was that? He had been almost hearing again things lost far back in childhood, when he knew that there had been a real noise. Somebody was knocking at the outer door of Yew Cottage.
He got up, kindled the lamp on the table beside him, and carried it to light his way out into the hall. Raindrops blew into his face as he opened the door, and he held the lamp high.
"I came to see Mrs. Fell," said the girl's voice. "I wondered if she would offer me tea."
She looked up seriously from under her sodden hat-brim. The lamplight brought her close out of the rain. She spoke with an innocent, apologetic glance past him into the hall.
"They're out," he said. "But please don't let that stop you from coming in. I–I don't know whether I can manage making tea the right way…
"I can," she told him.
All the stiffness vanished. She smiled. So presently the wet hat and coat were hanging in the hall, and she was hurrying about the kitchen in a highly practical manner while he tried to give a decent appearance of being busy. There is never, he reflected, such a guilty feeling as standing in the middle of a kitchen during the preparation of food; it is like watching somebody change a tire. Whenever you try to move about, as though you were actually doing something, you run into the other person with a bump; and then you feel as though you had shoved the tire-changer over on his face for sheer devilment. They did not talk much, but Dorothy addressed the tea-things vigorously.
She laid the cloth on a small table before the fire in the doctor's study. The curtains were drawn, the blaze piled again with coal. Intent, her brows puckered, she was buttering toast; he could see the shadows under her eyes in the yellow lamplight. Hot muffins, marmalade, and strong tea; the rasp of the knife on toast, steadily, and the warm sweet odour of cinnamon spread on it….
She looked up suddenly.
"I say, aren't you going to drink your tea?"
"No," he said flatly. "Tell me what's been happening.
The knife tinkled on the plate as she put it down, very quietly. She answered, looking away: "There isn't anything. Only, I had to get out of that house."
"You eat something. I'm not hungry."
"Oh, don't you see I'm not either?" she demanded. "It's so nice here; the rain, and the fire―" She flexed her muscles, like a cat, and stared at the edge of the mantelpiece. The teacups smoked between them. She was sitting on an old sagging sofa, whose cloth was of a dull red. Thrown down on the hearth, face upwards, lay the paper on which he had copied the verses. She nodded towards it.
"Have you told Dr. Fell about that?"
"I've mentioned it. But I haven't told him your idea that there is something hidden… "
He realized that he had no idea what he was talking about. On an impulse that was as sudden as a blow in the chest, he rose to his feet. His legs felt light and shaky, and he could hear the teakettle singing loudly. He was conscious of her eyes, bright and steady in the firelight, as he went round to the sofa. For a moment she stared at the fire, and then turned towards him.
He found himself looking at the fire, its heat fierce on his eyes, listening vaguely to the singing kettle and the dim tumult of the rain. For a long time, when he had ceased to kiss her, she remained motionless against his shoulder, her eyes closed and waxen-lidded. Fear that he would be repulsed had lifted, and slowed the enormous pounding of his heart into a peace that was like a blanket drawn about them. He felt madly jubilant and, at the same time, stupid. Turning, he was startled to see her looking at the ceiling with a blank, wide-open stare.
His voice sounded loud in his own ears. "I―" he said, "I shouldn't have―"
The blank eyes moved over to his. They seemed to be looking up from some great depth. Slowly her arm moved up round his neck, and drew his face down again. A close, heart-pounding interval while the kettle ceased to sing and somebody seemed to be murmuring incoherently into his ear, through a warm mist. Then suddenly she broke away from him and got to her feet with a spasmodic motion. Walking back and forth in the lamplight, her cheeks flushed, she stopped before him.
"I know it," she said, breathlessly, in a hard voice. "I'm a callous little beast. I'm a rotter, that's all. To be doing that — with Martin…"
He got up sharply and took her by the shoulders.
"Don't think about that! Try to stop thinking about it," he said. "It's over and done with, don't you see? Dorothy, I love you."
"And do you think I don't love you?" she demanded. "I never will, I never could, love anybody as much as I do you. It scares me. It's the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and I even dream about it at night. That's how bad it is. But it's horrible of me to be thinking about that now…."
Her voice shook. He found that he had tightened his grip on her shoulders, as though he were trying to hold her from a jump.
"We're both a little crazy," she went on. "I won't tell you I care for you. I won't admit it. We're both upset by this ghastly business…."
"But it won't be for long, will it? My God! can't you stop brooding? You know what all these fears amount to. Nothing. You heard Dr. Fell say so."
"I can't explain it. I know what I'll do — go away. I'll go away now — tonight-tomorrow — and I'll forget you―"
"Could you forget? Because, if you could―"
He saw that her eyes were full of tears, and cursed himself. He tried to make his voice calm. "There isn't any need to forget. There's only one thing we've got to do. We've got to explain all this tommyrot, murders and curses and foolishness and everything, and then you'll be free. We'll both go away then, and―"
"Would you want me?"
"You little fool!"
"— Well," she said, plaintively, after a pause, "I only asked… Oh, damn it, when I think of myself reading books a month ago, and wondering whether I might be in love with Wilfrid Denim and not know it, and wondering how they could make such a fuss about it; and then I think of myself now — I've played the silly fool, I'd have done anything-!" She shook her head fiercely and then smiled. The impish look came back; she spoke banteringly, yet it was as though she were pricking a knife-point against her flesh, half fearful that she might draw blood. "I hope you mean it, old boy. I rather think I should die if you didn't."