Marie Léonie was rushing past a white, breeched figure, saying:
“Vous, une étrangère, avez osé….”
A shining, red-cheeked boy was stumbling slightly from before her. He said after her back:
“Mrs. Lowther’s handkerchief is the smallest, softest…” He added to the young woman in white: “We’d better go away…. Please let’s go away…. It’s not sporting….” A singularly familiar face; a singularly moving voice.
“For God’s sake let us go away….”
Who said “For God’s sake!” like that — with staring blue eyes?
She was at the door frantically trying to twist the great iron key; the lock was of very old hammered iron work. The doctor ought to be telephoned to. He had said that if Mark had fever or profuse sweats he should be telephoned to at once. Marie Léonie would be with him; it was her, Valentine’s, duty to telephone. The key would not turn; she hurt her hand in the effort. But part of her emotion was due to that bright-cheeked boy. Why should he have said that it was not sporting of them to be there? Why had he exclaimed for God’s sake to go away? The key would not turn. It stayed solid, like a piece of the old lock…. Who was the boy like? She rammed her shoulder against the unyielding door. She must not do that. She cried out.
From the window — she had gone to the window intending to tell the girl to set up a ladder for her, but it would be more sensible to tell her to telephone! — she could see Mrs. de Bray Pape. That lady was still haranguing the girl. And then on the path, beyond the lettuces and the newly sticked peas, arose a very tall figure. A very tall, thin, figure. Portentous. By some trick of the slope, figures there always appeared very tall…. The figure appeared leisurely: almost hesitant. Like the apparition of the statue of the Commander in Don Juan, somehow. It appeared to be preoccupied with its glove: undoing its glove….
Very tall, but with too much slightness of the legs…. A woman in hunting-breeches! Grey against the tall ash-stems of the spinney. You could not see her face because you were above her, in the window, and her head was bent down! In the name of God!…
There wafted over her a sense of the dreadful darkness in the old house at Grays Inn on that dreadful night…. She must not think of that dreadful night because of little Chrissie deep within her. She felt as if she held the child covered in her arms, as if she were looking upwards, bending down over the child. Actually she was looking downwards…. Then she had been looking upwards — up the dark stairs. At a marble statue, the white figure of a woman, the Nike… the Winged Victory. It is like that on the stairs of the Louvre. She must think of the Louvre, not Grays Inn. They were, in a Pompeian ante-room, Etruscan tombs, with guardians in uniform, their hands behind their backs. Strolling about as if they expected you to steal a tomb….
She had — they had — been staring up the stairs. The house had seemed unnaturally silent when they had entered. Unnaturally…. How can you seem more silent than silent. But you can! They had seemed to tiptoe. She had, at least. Then light had shone above —coming from an opened door, above. In the light had been the white figure that had said it had cancer!
She must not think about these things!
Such rage and despair had swept over her as she had never before known. She cried to Christopher, dark, beside her, that the woman lied. She had not got cancer….
She must not think about these things.
The woman on the path — in grey riding-clothes — approached slowly. The head still bent down. Undoubtedly she had silk under-things beneath all that grey cloth…. Well, they — Christopher and Valentine — gave her them.
It was queer how calm she was. That of course was Sylvia Tietjens. Let it be. She had fought for her man before and so she could again; the Russians should not have… The old jingle ran in her calm head….
But she was also desperately perturbed: trembling at the thought of that dreadful night! Christopher had wanted to go with Sylvia after she had fallen downstairs. A good theatre fall, but not good enough. But she, Valentine, had shouted: No! He was never going with Sylvia again. Finis Sylviae et magna…. In the black night…. Maroons had gone on firing. They could hear!
Well, she was calm. The sight of that figure was not going to hurt the tiny brain that worked deep within her womb. Nor the tiny limbs! She was going to slub the warm, soap-transfused flannel onto those little legs in the warm of the great hearth…. Nine hams up that chimney! Chrissie looking up and laughing…. That woman would never again do that! Not to a child of Christopher’s. Not to any man’s child, belike!
That had been Sylvia Tietjens’ son! With a girl in white breeches!… Well, who was. she to prevent a son’s seeing his father? She felt on her arm the weight of her own son. With that there she could confront the world!
It was queer! That woman’s face was all blurred…. Blubberingly! The features swollen, the eyes red!… Ah, she had been thinking, looking at the garden and the stillness: “If I had given Christopher that I should have kept him!” But she would never have kept him. Had she been the one woman in all the world he would never have looked at her. Not after he had seen her. Valentine Wannop!
Sylvia had looked up, contemplatively — as if into the very window. But she could not see into the window. She must have seen Mrs. de Bray Pape and the girl for it became apparent why she had taken off her glove. She now had a gold vanity box in her hand: looking in at the mirror and moving her right hand swiftly before her face… Remember: it was we who gave her that gold thing. Remember! Remember it hard!
Sudden anger came over her. That woman must never come into their house-place before whose hearth she was to bathe the little Chrissie! Never! Never! The place would be polluted. She knew, only by that, now she loathed and recoiled from that woman.
She was at the lock. The key turned…. See what emotion at the thought of harm to your unborn child can do for you! Subconsciously her right hand had remembered how you pressed the key upwards when you made it turn…. She must not run down the narrow stairs. The telephone was in a niche on the inner side of the great ingle. The room was dim: very long, very low. The Barker cabinet looked very rich with its green, yellow, and scarlet inlays. She was leaning sideways in the nook between the immense fireplace and the room wall, the telephone receiver at her ear. She looked down her long room — it opened into the dining-room, a great beam between. It was dark, gleaming, rich with old bees-waxed woods…. Elle ne demandait pas mieux… the phrase of Marie Léonie occurred constantly to her mind…. She did not ask better — if only the things were to be regarded as theirs! She looked into the distant future when things would spread out tranquilly before them. They would have a little money, a little peace. Things would spread out… like a plain seen from a hill. In the meantime they had to keep all on going…. She did not in effect grumble at that… as long as strength and health held out.
The doctor — she pictured him, long, sandy and very pleasant, suffering too from an incurable disease and debts, life being like that! — the doctor asked cheerfully on the telephone how Mark was. She said she did not know. He was said to have been profusely sweating…. Yes, it was possible that he might have been having a disagreeable interview. The doctor said:
“Tut! Tut! And yourself?” He had a Scotch accent, the sandy man…. She suggested that he might bring along a bromide. He said: “They’ve been bothering you. Don’t let them!” She said she had been asleep — but they probably would. She added: “Perhaps you would come quickly!”… Sister Anne! Sister Anne! For God’s sake Sister Anne! If she could get a bromide into her it would pass like a dream.