Part 7

She went slowly down the stairs. Be calm, be calm, she said to herself; this too will pass; this isn’t Shakespeare but only the children’s supper time. But the flow of her blood warmed and quickened as water grows hot while you wait with your hand under the bathroom faucet. On the landing, where a shot of sunlight came arrowing through from the sitting-room window, she waited to adjust a slipper. She could hear them on the gravel outside. If he came in now he would find her just so, gilded and silvered like a Christmas card. But their voices remained on the veranda where the children’s meal was laid. She could not afford to wait long. Now, now, were a few precious moments. This was a dream: and dreams must be recorded at once or they vanish for ever.

She heard one of them sneeze. It was Janet: she knew all their sneezes and coughs by ear. Yes, they probably _have_ caught cold, bathing in that storm. And they have to sleep outdoors to-night, too: on the porch, because of this infernal Picnic. It’s much colder; the thermometer must have dropped twenty degrees. She hurried to get the sweaters from the cupboard under the stairs.

They were sitting at the veranda table, with milk and bread and jam. Mr. Martin was in the fourth chair. He looked as though he too was ready for supper.

“Well, chickabiddies, did you have a good bathe? I hope you didn’t catch cold. Here, put on your sweaters.”

They looked up at her gaily. Their upper lips were wet and whitish.

“How pretty you look!” exclaimed Janet.

She had meant to toss him a brief, clear, friendly little gaze; an orderly hostess-to-pleasant-guest regard; but this from Janet startled her. She could see that he was holding her in his eye, meditating the accuracy of Janet’s comment. She did not feel ready to face him.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. And added, “Wipe your mouths after drinking.”

“He says that’s a milk moustache,” cried Rose, gesturing to the visitor. “It makes you healthy.”

Phyllis made a clucking reproach with her tongue.

“You mustn’t point. It’s not polite to say _he_. Say ‘Mr. Martin.’ Jay dear, after supper run and put away the mallets. I’ve told you, I don’t know how often, not to leave them lying on the lawn.... Oh, not _you_, Mr. Martin. Janet’ll do it after her supper.”

But he was up already and gone to get them. I suppose this perpetual correcting sounds silly to him, she thought. But how can I help it? George never disciplines them.

“It makes him hungry to watch us eat,” said Sylvia. “He wants some supper.”

“He’s joking with you. We’ll have ours by and by.”

She followed him into the garden. As she put her crisp silver slipper on the tread of the veranda steps she saw how the foot widened slightly to carry her weight. How terribly I’m noticing things. Something flickered at the corner of her eye: she suspected it was Lizzie, at the pantry window, trying to attract her attention. A throng of trifles jostled at the door of her mind, tapping for admission. Probably the ice has given out, after such heat. Well, then, they’ll have to do without cocktails. I can fix the sandwiches to-night when everyone’s in bed. If it turns chilly there won’t be enough blankets. Nounou won’t be back until late, I must get the children started to bed before.... I _won’t_ think of these things.

He had put away the croquet implements.

“Thank you. We’ve just time for a little stroll before the others get here.--I hope you’ll like Mr. and Mrs. Brook. They’re extremely nice, really, but a bit heavy.”

“Perhaps they eat too much.” He said it with the air of one courteously offering a helpful suggestion.

She had wanted, wanted so to be alone with him: she had a desperate feeling that there were urgent things to be said, and now she could utter nothing. Her mind ran zigzagging beside her, like a questing dog, while she tried to steer their talk into some channel of reality. Her thoughts kept crowding massively under her uneasy words, pushing them out before they were ready, cutting into her speech like italics in a page of swarthy Roman type.

“We all eat too much in hot weather, I dare say. _Oh, if I could only write him a letter I could make him understand. He’s so sophisticated, I suppose the quaint things he says are his way of making fun of me. Why did I suggest our walking like this? You can’t see a person’s face when you’re walking side by side. And if we go round the path again, Lizzie will get me from the pantry._ Let’s sit down on the bench.”

“It’s wet, it’ll spoil your pretty skirt.”

Skirt!... What a word for this mist of silvery tissue she had put on specially for him....

“So it is. Well, let’s see what the storm has done to the roses.”

The little walk under the trellis was flaked with wet petals.

“Poor darlings, there’s not much left of them now. _If Shakespeare was here I should feel the same way. Speechless. Why, he’s like a god: lovely to think about, impossible to talk to. He doesn’t give anything, just absorbs you: you feel like a drop of ink on a blotter._ I have a horrid suspicion that the ice has given out, you mustn’t mind if your cocktail is warm.”

He kept looking at her in brief glances. Each time she met them it was like getting a letter in some familiar handwriting but stamped with a strange postmark.

“Are they better cold?”

_I give up, I give up. It’s no use. I can’t even think. There’s some sort of veil, mist, between us. He_ is _a kind of god. He’s brightness, beauty. Every movement he makes is a revelation and a question. How can I speak to him when all I want is to love him. There’s nothing earthy, nothing gross about this. It’s lovelier than anything I ever dreamed of. And if I tried to tell any one it would sound like tawdry farce...._

Dimly she divined what lay between them, what always lies between men and gods, making them such embarrassed companions--the whole of life, the actual functions of living; the sense of absurdity (enemy of all tender beauty); trained necessities for silence, that darken the intuitions of the soul.

_It’s as impossible as--as the New Testament. I feel like Christmas Eve: there’s a new Me being born. You can’t have a Nativity without pangs. And not even any one to bring me frankincense and myrrh...._

She stopped, picked one of the late rosebuds, and put it in his lapel. She checked a frightened impulse to tell him that she named the baby Rose because it was her favourite flower and she looked so like a rosebud when she was born. This was courage, because to say it would have carried on the doomed conversation one paragraph farther in safety. To any one else she would have said it. But now she spoke shakenly, from far within.

“You’re not easy to talk to--Martin.”

His face changed, he looked less anxious. He took her hand. She found herself not surprised: it seemed entirely natural. She felt his fingers lace into hers. Just as Janet does, she thought.

“I get frightened when people talk to me,” he said.

She looked at him, worshipping. The bad spell was broken. Instantly she felt they could communicate. He was frightened too--the precious! Over his shoulder she caught sight of the little old-fashioned weather vane on the stable, a gilded galloping horse with flowing tail. Always racing in blue emptiness and never getting anywhere. Like Time itself; like this marvellous instant, so agonizingly reached, that could never come again. No one who knew her in her daily rote would quite have recognized her then as she looked into his eyes. She was completely herself, born again in innocence, in the instinctive yearning for what she knew was good. The unknown ripeness of woman woke for an instant from its long drug of peevish days, small decisions, goaded nothings. Humbled, purified, bewildered, she saw the dark face of Love, the god too errant for heaven and who suffers on earth like a man.

“Martin, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said politely.

Beyond the stable she heard the sound of the car.

XI

“It was just adorable of you to come.”

Ruth was getting out of the car. They kissed.

“Why, Phyllis! How sweet you look! Gracious: I thought this was a Picnic, and here you are in a dance frock. For Heaven’s sake lead me to hot water. Those awful Pullmans; I’m simply speckled with cinders. I feel gritty all over.”

That, of course, must be Miss Clyde, on the front seat.

“How do you do! After all these years! I don’t suppose we’d have known each other. But we ought to, George admires your work so much.”

They shook hands. It was a hard, capable little hand, calloused like a boy’s. Phyllis knew now that she remembered the grey-green eyes: agates, gold-flecked, with light behind them. Eyes softly shadowed underneath, as though from too much eagerness to understand; eyes dipped in darkness. The small shy child of long ago, who stood apart from games. How many strange moments had both been through since last they met?

George was getting out the suitcases. He was afraid to watch Phyllis and Joyce greet. When a finely adjusted balance hovers in equilibrium you don’t breathe on the scales.

“We were on the same train,” cried Ruth, “and never recognized each other.”

Ben felt the twinge of anxiety common to the husband who hears his wife tell an unnecessary fib. Ruth had said this once before already, in the car, so perhaps it was important. Her allusion to Pullmans, also, was based (he suspected) on the erroneous notion that Miss Clyde had ridden in a day coach. But he liked to back Ruth up, if he knew what she was heading for.

“I guess we’ve all changed,” he said mildly. “The old house hasn’t, it looks just the same.”

“Miss Clyde’s brought her paint box,” George said. “She’s going to do a picture.”

“Oh, yes, and we have another--why, that’s fine, Miss Clyde--we have another artist here too, Mr. Martin. You must all come in and meet him.”

She stood holding the screen door aside, welcoming them in. George, coming last, saw how her cheerful smile faded to expressionless blank when the guests had passed. She had relapsed into automatic Hostess. How lonely she must be to look like that. I wish it was over, he thought. His mind felt like a spider that has caught several large flies at once: the delicate web was in danger of breaking.

They entered the hall.

“It isn’t changed a bit!” Ruth said. “Exactly as I remember it--except it seems smaller. That old table, for instance, that used to be just enormous. Well, hot water first. I can sentimentalize much better when I’m clean.”

George was thinking: Ruth’s probably the kind of woman who always twists the toothpaste tube crooked, but her babble will help us around corners.

“I hope Miss Clyde won’t mind being in the little sitting room downstairs: you see we’re just camping out here, you must all make yourselves at home.”

Joyce tried to frame some appropriate reply to Phyllis’s clear, faintly hostile voice. She was in the tranced uneasiness of revisit. Coming from the station she had been trying to realize the Island again: her mind was startled by the permanence of the physical world. Things she had not thought of for so long--things that she had apparently been carrying, unawares, in memory--were still there, unaltered, reproaching her own instability. The planks of the station platform, the old scow rotting in the mud, the road of crushed oyster shells, the same vacancy of sand and sky.

In the car she and George were both achingly mute. There seemed to be a sheet of glass between them. The Brooks emitted cheerful chatter from the back seat, George replied with bustling geniality, his only mask. How wonderful if they could just have made this ride in silence; she had a feeling that all sorts of lovely meanings were escaping her. There was the notch of blue light where the road slipped over a prickling horizon of pines. How just right were the slopes of the puppy-coloured sand hills, the tasselled trees against the pure lazy air, the coloured veining of the fields. Now, now; here, here; I’m here and now, she had to remind herself. It’s God’s world, whatever that can mean. Golly, you must be careful how you make fun of religion: it’s a form of art. She imagined a painting of that aisle of sandy road, climbing through the tall resiny grove. _Religion_ would be a good name for it.--George had never seemed so far away as now when she sat beside him. Would it always be like that? Oh, teach yourself not to love things, she thought. Be indifferent. It’s love that causes suffering, it’s tenderness that weighs heavy on the heart. How ridiculous to say that God loves the world. He doesn’t give a damn about it, really. That’s why He’s so cheerful ... such a competent artist. His hand doesn’t shake. Still, I don’t think I want to meet Him. It’s a mistake to meet artists you admire; they’re always disappointing.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “I love it too much. Those trees. They look so surprised. I have a guilty passion for pine trees.”

Driving the faithful car had strengthened George. Even the paltriest has an encouraged sense of competence with that steady tattoo underneath his feet. The artist that lay printed like a fossil in George’s close-packed heart--the artist that only Joyce had ever relished--always responded to the drum of the engine. He adored the car; when he drove alone to the Island (sending the family by train) he sang to her most of the way. This was _his_ guilty passion. Now it was the car’s rhyming vitality that came to his rescue. He broke the glass. He cut himself, but he got through.

“Any kind of love is too much,” he said.

Then he was grieved to find himself uttering such a cheap oracle; but it comforted Joyce because she saw it was a symptom. It showed that he was trying to tell the truth. She did not dare look at him: she was too conscious of the others behind them, who seemed as massively attentive as an audience in a theatre. Then in a wave of annoyance, Surely I have a right to look where I want? She did so. She could see the confidential tilt of his eyebrow so plainly, she knew he was hers for the taking. Nothing but themselves could stand between them.

“How queer: that’s just what I was thinking,” she told the eyebrow.

“Oh, do you believe in telepathy?” chirped Ruth. “Ben sometimes knows exactly what I’m thinking without my saying a word.”

It can’t happen often, George thought.

“What were you laughing at?” he found time to ask her, as the others were descending from the car.

“I was just thinking, there’s not much danger of my meeting God, because I’m not pure in heart.”

* * * * *

“Oh, I shall be perfectly comfortable anywhere,” she said.

The single swathe of sunshine carved the hall, dividing it into two dusks as the word _Now_ divides one’s mind. All, all unchanged: the series of hemispherical bronze gongs at the dining-room door, the wakeful asthma of the tall clock, the wide banistered stairway with its air of waiting to creak. The soft, gold-sliced shadow trembled with small sounds, and light voices of children drifted down from above. If this was still real, then what was her life of to-day? Why pretend any longer to make the world seem reasonable? It was all a delightful ironic farce with an audience applauding the wrong moments and the Author gritting his teeth in the wings. What use was Time if it availed so little?

The broad stream of sunlight flowed through the house like a steady ripple of Lethe, washing away the sandy shelves of trivial Now, dissolving little edges of past and future into its current, drawing all Time together in one clear onward sluice. What are we waiting for, she wondered. What is everyone waiting for, always? She was painfully aware of George standing near her. It was not silence that sundered them, but their grotesque desire to speak.

“George,” Phyllis was saying, “you give Ben a drink or something while I take the ladies----”

In the shadow beyond the table there was a clicking sound. Through the wide opening of the dining-room double doors two figures crawled, on all fours, with a toy train. Janet was in her pyjamas, ready for bed. Martin’s hand moved the engine across the floor. They came into the stripe of sunset.

“Wait a minute!” cried Janet. “Here’s one of the passengers.”

“Put him in,” said Martin. “And then the train goes round a sharp curve and smashes into a lot of people, bing!”

“Quick, I’ll telephone for a nambulance. You adbretized Perfect Safety on this railroad. It said so in your booklet.”

“Well, if people will sit down for a Picnic right on the main line----”

“Goodness, what a nasinine thing to do.”

“They were using the hot rails to fry their bacon on.”

“Here’s the doctor. Are there any children hurt?”

“Children all safe,” said Martin, looking carefully through the wreckage. “A lot of grown-ups badly damaged.”

“Here’s the pistol. Put them out of their misery.”

“Bang-bang-bang!”

“They didn’t suffer much. I’ll go for the wrecking train.”

“Janet!” exclaimed Phyllis. “What are you _doing_, running about the house in your pyjamas. And you’ve got sniffles already.”

The two players looked up; but they could see nothing outside their tunnel of brightness. The voice seemed like imagination.

“Of course the railroad company will have to pay money for those valuable lives,” said Martin regretfully.

“I’ll get the blocks, we can build a norphan asylum for the surveyors.”

“Not surveyors, survivors.”

“Janet! Say good-night to Mr. Martin and run upstairs.”

This time the command was unmistakable. Janet became aware of tall ominous figures emerging from the surrounding dusk.

“Good-night!” she cried hastily, and ran.

“I’m afraid Janet’s manners are terrible,” Phyllis said. “She ought to have shaken hands, but I don’t like to call her back now, she’ll catch more cold.”

Two other forms appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Is to-morrow the Picnic?” they called anxiously.

Martin was still sitting on the floor, musing over the disaster. Janet halted halfway up and shouted. “He says you said Damn the Picnic.”

Sylvia and Rose burst into snivels. There was a moment of difficult pause. Martin realized that something was happening and began collecting the train.

“You _promised_ the Picnic for to-morrow,” he said, looking up from where he was kneeling.

“Yes, yes, to-morrow, don’t worry,” George shouted to the children.

“Mr. Martin’s been awfully kind at keeping them amused,” said Phyllis. “Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Brook, Miss Clyde.--George, turn on the light, Mr. Martin can’t _see_ us.”

The button clicked, the bulbs jumped to attention, mere loops of pale wire beside the orange shaft of sun. Martin scrambled suddenly to his feet.

“How do you do,” he said.

* * * * *

“What stunning towels,” Ruth remarked as Phyllis was pointing out the hot-water tap. The embroidery of Phyllis’s maiden initials was luxuriously illegible, in some sort of Old High German character. “Surely those didn’t come with the house?”

“No; they’re mine; all that’s left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels.”

But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes.

“Your artist man is rather extraordinary,” she said. “Why should any one so attractive need to be so bashful?”

“He’s not really bashful.--There, I think you’ll find everything you need.”

* * * * *

The light twinkled on a tray of yellowish glasses on the sideboard. George unlocked the cupboard, took out a bottle, and split open a new box of cigarettes with his thumbnail. There’s a consolation in having these small things to do, he thought. Meanwhile, what am I really thinking of? I suppose she’s washing her hands. It’s awkward having her downstairs. She’ll want to change.... I don’t believe she’s got a mirror in there. We can hardly expect her to use the bookcase panes.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Ben, pour the tonic. It’s good stuff.” Mr. Martin was still standing by the door uncertainly, holding the toy engine. Heavens, does the fellow have to be moved round like a chess man? He’s so difficult to talk to, somehow. George made a cordial gesture, indicating that Mr. Martin might as well join Ben at the sideboard. Martin crossed the room obediently.

The anxious host glanced into the sitting room. Yes: Phyllis, with her usual skill, had turned the desk into a dressing table: there was a fresh doily on it, a vase of flowers, and the mirror from his own bureau upstairs. Already, though she hadn’t entered it yet, the room was no longer his but Joyce’s. It had become private, precious, and strange. Here, in the very centre of his own muddled affairs, was suddenly a kernel of unattainable magic. Why in God’s name had Phyllis put her in his room? It was too savagely ironic. In my heart, in my mind, in my very bed, and I can’t even speak to her. It’s too farcical. If I didn’t have to keep it secret we could all laugh about it. Secrecy is the only poison.

He carried in Joyce’s suitcase and paint box, put them on the couch, and fled.

“Well, Ben, I saved my last bottle for this party. It’ll help us live through the Picnic. Mr. Martin, aren’t you drinking?”

“What is it?” asked Martin.

“Try it and see. You don’t need to worry. It’s real.”

Ben held up his glass, prolonging anticipation. The fine vatted aroma of the rye cheered his nostrils. Here at least was one trifle which helps assuage the immense tedium of life.

“Funny to see the old place again,” he said. “How well I remember those coloured panes. Well....”

“Never drink without a sentiment,” said George.

“All right: stained glass windows.”

“Good enough. Stained glass windows.”

“Is this your first visit?” Ben began politely; but the other guest was still coughing and gagging. His eyes were full of tears.

Not used to good stuff, George thought. You don’t get much of this genuine rye nowadays. He and Ben waited, rather embarrassed, until the other had stopped patting his chest. Ben lit a cigarette and blew a ring.

Martin’s face brightened. He put out his finger and hooked the floating twirl.

“That’s lovely!” he said. “How do you do it?”

Ben was pleased at this tribute to his only social accomplishment.

“Why, it’s quite easy. Get a big mouthful of smoke, purse your lips in a circle, like the hole in a doughnut, and raise your tongue suddenly to push the smoke out.”

“Do it again.”

Ben looked so comic, shaping his mouth, Martin couldn’t help laughing.

“You look like a catfish. Can _you_ do it too?”

“Not so well as Ben. Gosh, didn’t you ever see any one blow smoke rings before?”

“No. My father doesn’t smoke.”

Ben looked a little perplexed. He had an uneasy feeling that perhaps the artist was making fun of them in some obscure way.

Phyllis called from the stairs. “George, will you come up and speak to the children? They want to be reassured about the Picnic.”

“Do I have to finish this medicine?” Martin asked.

George grinned at him, rather tickled by this drollery.

“You must do as you think best. Make yourselves at home, you fellows. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t you like it?” said Ben.

“No.”

“Well, I can help you.”

“It was nice of you to blow a smoke ring to amuse me.”

There was silence, which Ben concluded by taking the other glass of whisky.

“Happy days,” he said.

“To-morrow will be a happy day,” Martin said. “We’re going to be reassured by a Picnic.”

“Have a cigarette,” was all that Ben could think of.

“Who were the ladies you brought with you?”

“Well, one of them’s my wife.”

“Which, the pretty one?”

Ben poured himself another slug. He felt he needed it. He had a strong desire to laugh, but there was sincere inquiry in Mr. Martin’s eyes. He really wanted to know.

“Ask _them_,” he said.

Phyllis came into the room.

“It’ll soon be dinner time. You people all ready?”

Martin held out his arms. It was so nearly the substance of her dream, she moved forward to enter his embrace. Ben’s face of surprise checked her in time. She took Martin’s hands.