— We’ll wait until morning, then.
— Yes.
When she had gone he went down again to the kitchen. Lilian was standing by the sink. She looked at him and opened her mouth to speak, but instead she looked away.
— Alice looks pale, she said after a moment.
— Yes. She’s tired. This has all been a strain on her.
— On all of us.
— Yes.
She stored the cups and saucers in the cupboard, then dried her hands and said:
— I have to feed the hens.
— Lilian, he began, and stopped. She stood with her head bent, waiting. He went on awkwardly:
— You’ll be lonely now.
She shrugged her shoulders, and blushed. He said:
— I was thinking, Lily, that maybe — maybe you’d like to come up and stay with us for a few days. It would take you out of yourself. This place — this is no place for a woman to live on her own.
— I might, she said doubtfully. I suppose I could manage it.
She glanced at him from under her eyebrows and smiled, a nervous, girlish smile. Then in confusion she fled out into the yard.
He wandered restlessly about the room. The strange clarity of vision and thought which follows exhaustion now came over him. The things around him as he looked at them began to seem unreal in their extreme reality. Everything he touched gave to his fingers the very essence of itself. The table seemed to vibrate in the grains of its wood, the steel of the sink was cold and sharp as ice. It was as if he were looking down from a great height through some mysterious spiral. In the corner behind the stove a blackthorn stick leaned against the wall. When he saw it he stepped forward and put out his fingers to touch it, but halted, frowning. He stared at the knots, and they seemed to be whirling in the dark wood, each one a small, closed world. He moved back uncertainly, and dropped his hand. Then he turned and quickly left the room.
He went upstairs to the small bedroom that looked out over the yard to the fields beyond the house. Alice lay on the bed among the shadows, fitfully dozing. Her hands were clasped over her swollen stomach. From the window he looked down into the yard. Lilian stood among the chickens, throwing food to them from her apron. The clucking of the birds came faintly to his ears. The last light was dying, soon it would be night. He stood with his forehead against the glass and gazed out over the darkening fields to the dark hills in the distance.
— Stephen? came Alice’s drowsy, querulous voice. He turned to her, saying:
— Did I wake you? I’m sorry.
— It doesn’t matter.
He sat beside her on the bed. She lifted her arm and touched his cheek with a damp palm. He sighed.
— What is it? she asked.
— I don’t know. I was thinking about father. I don’t seem to … I don’t …
He stopped, and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
— All I can remember is his knuckles. They were white, you know, and they used to curl around his stick — like that. Imagine your father being dead two days and all you can remember is a little thing like that. Today at the grave I couldn’t cry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I looked at the coffin and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.
— It’s the shock, she said.
He stood up with his hands in his pockets and paced the room. Frowning at the floor he said:
— I loved him. I know I did.
— Of course.
— Then what happened to that love is what I want to know? How did it die so easily? I loved him more than anything in the world.
He stopped and looked down at her, asking:
— How does love just die like that, Alice?
She said:
— Things kill it.
He stared at her. She bit her lip, as though she knew she had said too much and was afraid of saying more.
— What things? he asked, apprehension rising through his words.
— I don’t know.
— Look at me, Alice. What things?
But her eyes skittered away from his like frightened animals. She touched her face with agitated fingers.
— I don’t know anything about it, she cried. Why do you ask me? Why? Things just do — terrible things.
He sat beside her again, and stared at his hands clasped before him.
— You’re lying, he said, frowning. You’re talking nonsense. That is all … this … I know this is all wrong.
He stared down at her, but she had shut her eyes.
— It’s all wrong, he said again, shaking his head.
For a time all was still. Faint sounds came to him, the clucking of the chickens in the yard, the small winds singing in the slates. He laid his hand gently on the rise of her stomach. She gave a little moan, and turned her face to the wall, and as she did he felt the strange child move beneath his hand.
The Visit
— It’s going to rain, the old woman said. Pull up your hood.
She took the girl’s hand. Before them, at the top of the crooked field, the roof of the house shone in the light and three trees stood against the sky. It was the first day of spring and the wind from the mountains blew cold and clear, and shadows raced across the fields. They came to the lane behind the house and the old woman stopped to rest. The girl looked out at the distant sea, and the wind lifted her long yellow hair. A damp gust rattled the trees, and drops of rain flashed in the sunlight. Close by there was the sound of water falling over stones, and a thrush suddenly whistled.
— Tantey, said the girl. Why are there seasons?
The old woman looked at her startled.
— What sort of question is that?
In the kitchen the stove roared and the wind in the chimney blew the smoke back into the room. The old woman grumbled to herself as she struggled out of her cape. She gave it to the girl to hang behind the door and hobbled across and sat in the chair. The girl went to the window and looked out over the fields. The sound of the wind made her feel restless and vaguely excited, and she wanted to go out again and run madly through the grass. Behind her the old woman said:
— What are you at there?
— Nothing. Just looking out.
She went and sat on the arm of the chair beside her aunt.
— When will papa be here, Tantey?
The old woman did not answer. She fumbled in the pocket of her black dress.
— Where are my sweets? she muttered. Now I put them here, I’m sure of it.
The girl went to the dresser and brought back the grimy bag of peppermints.
— Ah you’re a good girl, the old woman said.
She sucked her sweet, nodding and staring blankly at her hands. After a while she looked up at the girl and smiled and gently pulled her hair.
— Your papa is a fine man, she said.
— But when is he coming?
— Maybe after tea, she snapped. Have patience.
The girl stood up and walked to the window, twisting her fingers. With her mouth set in a sulky line she muttered:
— I’m fed up waiting. I don’t think he’s coming at all. I think he’s forgot all about me.
The old woman smacked her hands together.
— Stop that talk. Forgot you indeed, and how could your own father forget you? You should be ashamed, carrying on like a baby.
The girl ran back and sat on the floor beside the chair. She licked her finger and rubbed the dried blood from a scratch on her knee. She said:
— Tell me about him again, Tantey.
— Well. He’s very tall and straight and — O he carries himself like that.
She pushed back her shoulders and held up her head at a proud and arrogant tilt. Then suddenly she gave a cackle of laughter and began to rock back and forth in her chair. She leaned down and ruffled the girl’s hair.