Conversation; or, Pilgrims' Progress

IV

“So you wouldn’t wait for me, eh? And you had your supper without me, eh? And at the Murphys’, too, with doughnuts! And I have to give this lummox of a girl her bath, and go without supper, or eat a cold sad sardine, all because I’m a little late, and walk to the sea! Fie upon you, and out upon you, and fie. That’s all I can say. Now shut your eyes.”

“And did you walk all the way to the sea?”

“Yes, I walked all the way to the sea. And I stood on the breakwater and looked at it—”

“And what did you see, daddy?”

“I saw nothing. I saw lots and lots and lots of nothing.”

“Ho, how silly, as if you could see lots of nothing!”

“Well, that’s what it was like, see? There was a gray, cold, miserable rain, filling all the air as far as you could see, and falling on the water, and rustling on my slicker, and running in beads off my oilskin hat, and there wasn’t a single ship, nor a motorboat, not even so much as a dory. There was only the little red bell buoy, in the middle of the channel, bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box—”

“Not like a jack-in-the-box—!”

“Well, sort of. And ringing its little sad bell, cling-clang, clingity-clang, cling-clang, cling-clang, so dolefully and pitifully to itself, with not even a sea gull listening to it—”

“And then what?”

“Well, then, after looking at all that nothing, I came back. I came back by the pine wood path, the Indian Pipe path, and it was all wet and silent and juicy and dripping and solemn and mysterious—”

“A mystery, a mystery!”

“Exactly — a mystery.”

“Yes, and go on.”

“Well, I guess that’s about all. Now, out of that bath!”

“All right. But you must tell me about the starlings.”

“Foo! Why, you saw the starlings yourself!”

“Yes, I know, but I want you to tell me about them. You saw them first, daddy, you know you did!”

“Well, so I did. Now, out you come — heave, ho!”

“So what.”

“Well, first of all I heard a great chittering and chattering, and a squeaking and a squawking, and a dithering and a dathering—”

“Ho ho, what funny words!”

“Like a thousand mice all squealing and squeaking—”

“Mice in a tree?”

“Ha, but I didn’t say they were mice, did I? That was before I knew what they were. Of course, it would have been very funny if they had turned out to be mice, up in a tree — perhaps that would have been better! Shall we have it mice instead?”

“No, let’s have it starlings. Besides, daddy, they were starlings!”

“So they were. Anyway, that’s what I saw they were, when I looked up at the tree to find out what all that uproar was about. And there they were, a thousand starlings — or maybe a thousand and one—”

“You couldn’t count them, silly!”

“Approximately. Now give me that foot.”

“You’ve already dried that one!”

“Well, then, the other.”

“And now go on—”

“I saw them all in the big poplar tree at the corner by Mr. Murphy’s house, that’s where they were first, and they were all fluttering and flapping, as if they were quarreling. They would dart down into the middle of the tree and then up again, whistling and screeching and shrieking at the tops of their voices, as if they were dreadfully angry about something; and then it seemed to me that there was some sort of fight going on, right in the middle of the tree, where most of the flapping was—”

“And that was where the poor starling was.”

“That was where the poor starling was. Of course, he may have been very naughty—”

“Well, and then what.”

“Suddenly they all went scrambling, the whole thousand, to the tree across the street, by the Bank, in Mister Riley’s field, all still chittering and chattering, and I was just getting back from my walk to the sea, and I watched them, and then I saw that they were all fighting with that one poor starling, pecking and pecking at him—”

“Do you suppose they really meant to hurt him?”

“Well, perhaps not, Buzzer — perhaps they just meant to punish him a little, see?”

“Yes, if he’d been really naughty — and go on!”

“And that was when I saw you, and told you to come and look at them. And we rushed into the garden then, just in time to see the whole great black cloud of them fly straight into the Puringtons’ poplar tree, right over our beautiful new lilac hedge, screaming and flapping, and then suddenly—”

“Yes, suddenly!”

“—that poor starling fell like a stone; with hardly so much as a flutter of a wing; on the wet grass right at our feet. And at first we thought it was dead, didn’t we?—”

“Yes, and you clapped your hands at all the other starlings, and they flew away — you were very angry, weren’t you, daddy? Because it was mean of them to all fight against just one—”

“—and it didn’t move, and its eyes were closed, and it lay there on its back, with its claws in the air, and then I picked it up and held it in my hands, and it was quite still—”

“But it wasn’t dead? Ho ho! It wasn’t dead at all! Was it!”

“No, it wasn’t dead at all. For suddenly it opened its eyes, and looked at us, quite calmly, first at you and then at me—”

“Did it, daddy?”

“Well, it just looked around, perhaps — perhaps to see where the rest of the starlings had gone to. And then, just as if nothing at all had happened, it up and flew away — lippity-lippity-lip!”

“And it was alive all the time!”

“It was alive all the time.”

“But why did it lie so still, and fall down out of the tree like that!”

“Well, Buzzer, I think maybe it was playing ’possum. Maybe it was pretending to be dead, so that the other starlings would all go away. And so it pretended to fall, like that, as if it couldn’t fly any more, but all the same managing not to hit the ground too hard, you see — it just waggled a wing once or twice, when it saw the ground coming up pretty fast, so as to keep from being hurt, and then it lay still with its eyes shut — but of course it hadn’t expected you and me to be there! That was a surprise.”

“Ho ho! And what do you suppose it thought when you picked it up, daddy?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, my pet. That must have given it rather a shock. Maybe it thought the other starlings were picking it up — goodness knows! But when it opened its eyes, and saw that it was sitting in my hand, and saw a little girl staring at it with eyes as big as lollipops, or marbles, or cannonballs — or umbrellas—”

“Ho, how silly, they weren’t either!”

“—and her mouth wide open, like the wolf in Little Red Riding-hood—”

“Do you suppose it thought I would eat it?”

“Ha! You never know. I daresay you looked pretty frightening, my lamb! And much bigger than a lion. And now, up the stairs!”

“And do you suppose it’s gone back to its friends, now?”

“Very likely. Perhaps when they saw what a fearful danger it was in, actually right in the hands of one of those dreadful, dreadful men — they’d be sorry for it, and think it had been punished enough, see? Now up you go, no more dillydallying. March!”

She skipped out of the bathroom, her hands flapping excitedly against her sides, and scrambled barefooted up the darkening stairs ahead of him. He followed slowly, already feeling how that gaiety fell from him, fell away like something false — or could it be that it was actually truer than the other? No, they were both true — they were both true. The unhappiness with Enid was certainly no truer than the happiness with Buzzer — not a bit. It was only that the shadow of that made this so difficult. And as for the dreadful news about poor Miss Twitchell, which Terence had stopped the wagon to tell him — found drowned in Indian Pond — absent for two days, too, without even being missed—lying there in three feet of water for two days before anybody had so much as noticed that she was gone—

“And wasn’t it lucky, daddy, that Chattahoochee wasn’t there!”

“Yes, very lucky. I should say so. Now, in you hop—”

“And tell me a story!”

“Foo! What nonsense. And besides it’s late. Didn’t I tell you that the world was coming to an end? Well, it has—and with a bang. It’s burst into a billion, billion, billion little pieces.”

“It hasn’t either. I know better! If it had burst, how could you stand there!”

She skipped into the little cot, drew up the counterpane with its embroidered birds, holding it snug against her chin, gave a quick wriggle, and then suddenly lay still. The blue eyes softened, dimmed, looked farther and farther away past him, and as he stooped to kiss the wet golden curl on the forehead, she was already beginning to sing her night song — that odd tuneless little sing-song, so like Enid’s rhymeless humming, with which she always magicked herself to sleep.

“Good night, my pet.”

“Good night!”

“Sleep tight.”

“Sleep tight!”

“Hope the bedbugs don’t bite.”

“Mmmmm!”

“And have a nice dream.”

“Mmmmmm!”

“And I’ll see you next year.”

“Mmmm.”

He touched the tip of her nose with one finger, straightened, went slowly back to the upper hall, and stood there under the sloping roof, listening to the gentle slithery sound of the rain on the shingles, the soft continuous patter mixed with the heavier occasional drip from the trees. Almost dark — the river barely visible, visible only as a dull gleam — mercury-colored. Diffused moonlight, of course — through the clouds, through the rain: the moon was all but full. Cut all things or gather, the moon in the wane; but sow in increasing, or give it his bane—where did that come from? A superstition? But it might be true, and if so the lilacs—

Yes — and the lilies of the valley, which Miss Twitchell had promised to give them, from her garden, only two weeks ago — for the shaded corner at the front, by the street — the lilies of the valley, which now they would never have! Taken with her into the shallow waters of Indian Pond, the pickerel weed and pond lilies — what had happened, what in god’s name had happened? Lying face down, drowned, only a few feet from the rocky shore, bareheaded — and waiting there two days to be found by small boys! What could it possibly mean? Maybe Ee would know — she had been Ee’s friend, rather than his — or acquaintance, rather — but, in the circumstances, how could he tell Ee about it? Had it been money? Cancer? What could move a middle-aged spinster — and apparently perfectly happy — to such a thing, and so suddenly? An orphan, they said she had been, and adopted, living alone in that big house, with the beautiful pine trees, and the Tree of Heaven, and liked by everybody, and kind to everybody. It had been so characteristic of her to come and offer the lilies of the valley, noticing that dark little corner of the garden where nothing would ever grow — he could remember just how she had pointed, with those rather odd-looking chalky hands of hers, the quick and diffident gesture, and said, “Yes lilies of the valley, I’ll bring you some roots.” And now, dead for two days without anyone, not a soul, even noticing her absence! Ah, that was human nature for you, that was brotherly love!

He felt a soft pressure against his leg, heard a little chirp — it was Chattahoochee, curling a striped tail ingratiatingly round his knee, and looking up at him with his slightly dishonest but very affectionate cat-smile.

“So it’s you,” he said.

“Prtrnyow,” said the cat.

“And what, might I ask, do you want? Food, I expect.”

“Prtrnyow.”

“And I suppose the weather’s too much for you, so that the ramming is off, eh? Is that it?”

“Prrrrt.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that. I’ve got troubles enough of my own!”

The idea amused him, and he found himself grinning at it, in spite of everything — how shocked Ee would be, by god! The cat padded stiffly away round the corner, tail in air, towards Buzzer’s room, towards his favorite counterpane (it was Buzzer’s theory that he liked to sleep among the embroidered birds) and as he turned from the low window to go down the stairs he heard the first snapping of the fire in the studio — Ee must have come back. She must have come in quietly, without telling him, without saying a word — it was part of the silent treatment, of course. As dining at the Murphys’ had been. The silence before the storm.

The fan of yellow lamplight fell across the hall floor from the half-opened door to the studio, and he found Enid crouched on the hearth before the fire, matchbox in hand. She looked up at him inquisitively, but otherwise without expression — except perhaps that the mouth seemed a little rigid, a shade too controlled. And perhaps she was pale.

“That was ingenious of you,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Going to the Murphys’ for supper, like that, so that I would come back to an empty house!”

“You said yourself—”

“And then sending Buzzer over for me to put to bed as soon as you saw me arriving! That was a neat touch, too. How did you manage to keep the house watched? Or did you get the Murphy kids to do it?”

“You said yourself you wouldn’t be back.”

“I said I mightn’t be back.”

“And I’m supposed just to wait and see—”

“You had no intention of going to the Murphys’ until it seemed to you to offer just one more chance of punishing me — had you?”

“That has nothing to do with it. If you go out for supper, why shouldn’t I!”

“You went there simply and solely to give me an empty house to come back to, and whether or not I stayed out to supper, didn’t you! The idea of the empty house, when you’d been blackmailing me with threats of leaving—”

“I had a perfect right to do what I did.”

“It was one of the meanest things you ever did — and I may say you’ve certainly been excelling yourself lately! Think it over. And perhaps, when I’ve finished foraging for the cold supper which you’ve so kindly not left for me, you’ll be ready to apologize.”

Turning too quickly, lest he give her time to answer, he tripped over the hall rug, stumbled, kicked it from him violently — damn! And then in his haste to retrieve himself, miscalculating in the dark, struck his right shoulder, painfully, against the doorjamb of the dining room. How disgusting — how grotesque. To give her, on top of everything else, that opportunity! He reeled, the pain sickened him, he pressed his hand hard against the bone, and it was not till he had reached the dark kitchen, and was groping for the lamp chimney on the shelf behind the stove, that he realized how completely the two little accidents had changed his plans. He had meant to go first, a little ostentatiously, to the dining room, light the candles, lay out the silver on the table, make his preparations with every appearance of leisure and formality — he might have to dine alone, but, by god, he could at any rate dine in state, wife or no wife! Yes … But instead, the unforeseen shock had driven him straight out to the kitchen, as far from her as he could get, so that he could hug his pain in secret. Just the sort of unpredictable accident that ruins everything — the little element of last-minute comedy that turns a tragedy into a farce. Like accidents on the stage — as when the tree trunk parted of its own accord, and Siegfried’s sword fell clattering out, before he had time even to get his hands on it. Yes. Damned funny! If one was on the right side of the curtain! But as it was—

As it was, the kitchen had its points: it was nice in a rain, anyway, for the rain on the thin, low roof sounded so loud and so near, one felt so exposed, it was almost as if one were outdoors: and the shadows, cast across the peeling whitewashed rafters, were so spectacular: and besides, in the circumstances, the whole notion was perhaps agreeably forlorn. He found in the cupboard — sure enough, what a joke — a tin of sardines, miraculously complete with a key, and opened it — he found a box of crackers. He forked out the dovetailed metallic sardines with a leaden kitchen fork, laid them neatly across the white crackers, and perched himself on the corner of the kitchen table to eat.

Dining at the Murphys’ like that—!

And then pretending that she had no ulterior motive—!

And knowing all the while that he would really be back for supper, anyway—

He rubbed his shoulder and listened to the persistent rain. He remembered that tomorrow was Friday, and that Mr. Murphy would be calling for him early with the Ford (which meant no breakfast either, not till he had reached the South Station in Boston), and he was just thinking how extraordinarily a silence can put distance between people, or turn a small house into a big one — as now, for instance, with positively an Atlantic Ocean spreading its screaming wastes between the studio and the kitchen — when the front doorbell rang. Zring—zring — it rang twice, loudly, and he heard Enid opening the studio door, and shooting back the bolt of the front door, and a voice, a male voice. Who the devil—!

He stepped up quietly into the dark dining room and listened.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know where Timothy is.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to disturb you, Enid—”

(It was Jim Connor — the voice broke off, hesitating.)

“—but I just thought I’d like to bring these little things over, these little toys, for Buzzer — if you didn’t mind—”

“Oh! I see.”

“They’re not very much. A couple of small things, all I could find here — Shall I put them down on the floor?”

“Yes. That will be all right.”

“Okay. There! Just a little pink cart — I thought, as we might be leaving for New York soon—”

“Oh—”

“—I’d like to give Buzzer something for her birthday. And to say good-by, Enid, and tell you how sorry I am about this mix-up.”

“Yes. That’s all been settled, hasn’t it?”

“Settled? Yes, I’m afraid it has! Well, good night, Enid, and no hard feelings.”

“Good night.”

“Good night!”

The door closed firmly on the melancholy voice, the bolt shot sharply in its socket, and then there was silence. Was she looking now at the little pink cart? Standing there and looking at the pink cart — and perhaps belatedly discovering, and feeling, her shame? Good god, what a scene. There was time, and plenty, to run after him, of course — he could walk back with him, walk up to the post office with him — across the bridge, even — but what was the use? To do so would solve nothing, alleviate no feelings. The rehabilitation with Jim could well wait, couldn’t it? till next he went to New York, and met him on “neutral” ground — and meanwhile it would only serve, of course, to complicate still further the dreadful tangle with Enid. Or was it cowardice to look at it like that?

Cowardice — yes.

He sat down on the piano bench, in the half-dark room, struck a match, lit the green bayberry candle that stood on the piano, in the green-wax-smeared mahogany candlestick, and looked up at the Japanese print which hung on the wall above and behind it. Famous Place to See Moon. The dark, nocturnal mountain torrent, among black rocks, rocks hooked and horned, zigzagged its way downward under the moon, and in every pool, on every stone shelf where the night-blue water had gathered to spill, a full moon was reflected — it was a chorus of moons, among the dark mountains, to praise that other moon which sidled out from a frond of cloud. Famous Place to See Moon—he remembered when they had bought it in Boston — seeing it in the window — he remembered how they had looked at it then, how much they had seen in it, how magical it had seemed. And now, suddenly, it struck him that he had not looked at it in the same way — looked at it like this, with care, with love — for years. Yes, that was true. And it was true of other things, too. One forgot them, one took them for granted — but how could it be otherwise, how could it possibly be otherwise? The first leaf, again — yes, it was exactly like that, the freshness of the first vision — the freshness of the first love — and manifestly it would be absurd to expect that first freshness to last. As if an ecstasy could be permanent! How absurd. And yet, the thing itself was as beautiful as ever: the leaf, the Japanese print, or the woman one loved: it was only oneself that failed. The eye became fatigued, ceased to see — ceased to look — and instead of love, by god, marriage settled down to being just the terrible bed of habit — callous, careless, indifferent — but how else could it be? And all the w.c.’s—!

Comic, yes — and an act of divination as well — for just as he was amusing himself with his own sudden vision of life, as symbolized in an endless vista of w.c.’s, which receded parabolically into the infinite, Enid went quickly across the hall, into the bathroom, and shut the door. At the same instant, too, a light switched on in an upper room of the Purington house, and he turned around just in time to see Gladys Purington, black-haired and handsome, reaching up to pull down the window shade. Intimacy — yes, how was one to compromise with intimacy? Now with this print, Famous Place to See Moon, it was just as obvious that a prolonged familiarity was in some degree deadening as with a person. He had forgotten how lovely it was, forgotten its precise virtue of naïve magic, its tenderness, its — yes, above all—love, and could not now, perhaps, so much love it again himself had he not forgotten it — it was all very odd!

He struck a chord, and another, and a third — tried, angrily, to remember Schoenberg’s “mystic” chord, and what Paul had said about it — began to play Debussy’s Arabesque and stopped; and was beginning a fragment of a Bach toccata when Enid came and stood in the doorway. Her arms were folded across the green smock, she was lightly biting her lower lip. She looked angry, but unhappy as well. There was a curious awkwardness, half of aggression and half of retreat, in the way she leaned slightly against the doorjamb. Her head, tipped a little to one side, was just perceptibly swaying, and the steady green eyes — beautiful — looked for a long moment into his own before she spoke.

“Don’t you think we ought to discuss this?” she said.

He smiled cynically up at her, tapped a note, tapped it again, felt with his fingers for a little chord, and then suddenly hardened his gaze and looked beyond her, into the dark garden where the dead plum tree stood in the rain.

“Why?” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid I’m becoming a little indifferent.”

“Indifferent? To what?”

“To you. I don’t think you can blame me if I feel a little bruised!”

“I see. You become indifferent to me when I dare to stand up for my rights!”

“Work it out for yourself — however you like! I don’t really much care, that’s all!”

“Oh. And you just propose to let things go on like this?”

“Why not? You started it, didn’t you? Can’t you finish it? I don’t mind, if you don’t. And as long as you intend to treat me in this fashion I’m quite happy without your society. A woman who can behave as you did just now to Jim Connor doesn’t interest me. Or only pathologically!”

“There was nothing else for me to do.”

“Nothing else for you to do! You could have been human. But that’s not your long suit, is it?”

“Human—! What is there to make me human, in this life—!”

“Oh, have you got to be made human? And I’m supposed to do it, I suppose—?”

“You’re very clever, you can twist my words—”

“I damned well need to be. If I’m clever, you’re hard! My god, the things you’ve been doing — how could you do that to Jim Connor, when he was actually bringing presents for Buzzer! Not to mention lying to him, and telling him you didn’t know where I was!”

“I didn’t know — I thought you might have gone out.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Very well — I can’t make you believe me. I was abrupt with Jim partly because I was embarrassed — naturally I was surprised to see him when I thought the whole thing was finished—”

“Embarrassed — I should think so! You ought to have been sick with shame. And I’d think a lot better of you if you had been. It’s not enough, is it, that you drive my friends away, cut me off from them, from the few people I find interesting and stimulating — you have to insult them on my very doorstep—”

“I didn’t insult him—”

“Not in so many words, no! But did I hear any thanks for what was really an extraordinarily nice thing of him to do? Did you even offer to take the things from him? Oh, no — you just stood there and let him put them on the floor. Where I suppose they still are! And this on top of everything else — driving him out of town, dictating that we aren’t to see each other — my god, and then you have the gall to turn around and try to pretend that it’s all in self-defense!”

“Which is exactly what it is.”

“Oh, yes, let’s hear all about that again — it’s bad for our precious names and social positions, and Buzzer’s future will be ruined, and all the rest of that snobbish silly nonsense—”

“Do you ever think of anybody but yourself? For one moment?”

“Never.”

“I thought not. You never think, for instance, of the difference between a woman’s social position and a man’s—”

“Oh? Let’s hear about it.”

“It’s true. It’s the woman who stays at home, who has to face it, not the man — the man doesn’t know about it, and doesn’t care — he’s got his own separate life — but what about the woman? It’s all very well for you, with half your life spent in town, or on trips to New York—”

“Trips to New York—!”

“Yes, trips to New York. And about half the week at home, and most of that shut up in the studio — but what about me, the rest of the time? Does it ever occur to you that people talk?”

“How wonderful.”

“It’s not wonderful at all. It’s very natural.”

“Well? And what do they talk about?”

“They begin by pitying me. Just like George and Mabel. Oh, if you’d known the times Mabel has asked me if I didn’t get lonely—”

“Yes — I know — one of those sweet little services that women love to do for each other!”

“And then, because they’re afraid of showing their pity, if they’re nice, and embarrassed by it, they begin to stay away. Do you realize that nowadays, when you’re in town, George and Mabel practically never come to see me? Or anybody else, for that matter? Oh, I’m kept in cold storage, all right. They come to see me when you’re here, but apparently it’s beginning to be thought not quite respectable to call on me when I’m alone. Or as if it wasn’t respectable for me to be left alone.”

“Aren’t you being just a little imaginative?”

“Oh, no. You ask your friend George — ask your friend Paul, too. If you can get an honest answer out of them, which I doubt! The truth is, they’re ashamed for you. And the neighbors, too — they shun me as if I were the plague. Even Mrs. Murphy is always hinting, saying it’s such a pity, isn’t it, that my husband has to be away so much, as if it implied either that there was something wrong with you, or something terribly wrong with me!”

“Yes. And what else?”

“Well — naturally, it all leads to gossip.”

“Oh. I see. How nice.”

“It isn’t at all nice.”

“Well, let’s hear it!”

“They think—”

“Who thinks?”

“They all do.”

“Oh. And they all told you?”

“No. It’s not necessary to go into that!”

“All right, let’s have the gossip.”

“They think, when you go to town, or to New York—”

“New York! I haven’t been there for six months!”

“No matter. When you go to town — when you go away — they think you wouldn’t go so much, or stay so long, if there weren’t some other reason. Some reason other than your work. They think you’re having an affair. They can’t imagine that you wouldn’t have arranged things better — so as to spare me so much work and so much loneliness — if there weren’t some other reason.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

“By god, I — and who are the saintly people who told you this?”

“Would any useful purpose be served by telling you?”

“They ought to be faced with it, the damned mischief-makers — and I suppose, of course, you didn’t—!”

“On the contrary, I did!”

“You shouldn’t have permitted them to raise the thing at all.”

“How could I help it? They merely said, besides, what everybody else is thinking. So what does it matter!”

“Any loyal wife can prevent that sort of thing being said to her. You know that as well as I do. The truth is you’ve been looking for causes of complaint—”

“I have not!”

“—for the past six months. Oh, yes, you have. And if you can pick up a dirty little piece of gossip to fling in my face—”

“I did nothing of the sort. I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

“It looks very like it, doesn’t it? You complain about my friends, even compel me to drop them, you complain about my work, about our poverty, you complain about living in the country, you complain even because you have to do a little work yourself—”

“A little work! You try doing a morning’s washing!”

“—and now you complain because the neighbors gossip. Good god, Enid, what next? Oh, yes, and the schools, too — I’d forgotten about that — the schools aren’t good enough for Buzzer, and the children speak with simply atrocious accents! Is there anything else, while we’re on the subject? We might as well get right down to it. And when you’ve had your say, maybe I’ll have mine.”

“I’ve got plenty to say — I’ve had plenty to say — if you’d ever take the trouble to listen. And when I say listen, I mean listen. But I might as well be living alone, living in a vacuum, as far as getting any understanding is concerned—!”

“Ah, the old classic. So I don’t understand you any more.”

“If you even paid me as much attention as you pay to Buzzer — or gave me a little of the kind of imaginative sympathy you give to her—”

“Good god almighty, do you mean to say you’re going to be so low as to be jealous of your own child—?”

“It isn’t jealousy. I wouldn’t take it away from Buzzer, it’s very good for her, and it’s very lovely, too, it’s the nicest thing about you — but why couldn’t you give a little of it to me?”

“As if I hadn’t! And why the devil should I? What in hell do you give me? What? You do nothing but interfere with my life, my work, my career, my friends — the whole blasted business — and then you come running to me for understanding! Why don’t you run to your mother—it seems to be what you need!”

“Perhaps I will!”

“She ought to understand you — you get more like her every day! You’re turning into a complete prig.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. A damned prig.”

“If you’re going to have recourse to swearing, simply—”

She had suddenly flushed, the high cheekbones were beautifully flushed, the green eyes widened as if deliberately for contempt, and she turned abruptly and went out, went through the hall and into the studio. He heard the two-toned squeak of the door, the clink of the tongs in the fireplace, the soft rustling thud of a pine log on to the other logs in the fire — that familiar, scaly, bark-scabbing sound, the red bark flaking and peeling — and he waited then for the creak of her wicker chair, but none came. She must be standing — she must simply be standing there — looking at the fire, looking out of the window — looking even at his pictures? Not likely! But standing in the intensity of her thought, standing and waiting. Yes — and implying too, by her departure on that particular note, that it was New Bedford she was thinking of, and the now twice-threatened return to her mother. Good god, how extraordinary, how simply grotesque — that actually, after all this time, they should now find themselves in this situation! Home and mother — how preposterous! He struck a chord at random, and looked up again at the Japanese print, in the dim candlelight. But that business of the “gossip,” and so ridiculously just now, as the affair with Nora was coming to an end, and especially in view of the fact that it had begun coming to an end precisely because they had decided to move into the country, to live in this village — how ironically and infuriatingly unfair that was, how typically silly an injustice! And Ee herself apparently disbelieving it—

But did she?

Or had it been a skillful tactical bit of probing?

No, probably not. But just the same the mere suggestion of a suspicion — whether hers, or George’s and Mabel’s, or Mrs. Murphy’s — shook him and made him angry; and all the more so because while in fact it was right — or partly — in principle it was wrong. Yes, there was something definitely mean about it, that was it — that they should suspect him of going to town — or even to New York, good heavens — in pursuance of a love affair; and abandoning poor Enid for that reason; when in truth the very opposite was the case, and it was Nora who had been abandoned — this was simply a piece of wanton invention and mischief-making. It was sickening. And without a shred of evidence or motive for it, either! His mere absences had led their imaginations to this, that was all — and the absences had been innocent. Not only innocent, but hard work, too, by god, and increasingly at the cost of what he had hoped to make his career! Yes, this was a genuine meanness, and of a sort that surprised him in George and Mabel. So that was the way their minds worked. Ah — and there was human nature for you, again — always suspect the worst, and whisper it where it will do the most good! By all means. And by all means separate a wife from her husband if you can, it’s very likely the kindest thing you can do! And drive the idealists, like Jim Connor, out of town — and forget the Miss Twitchells till they are dead.…

He started to strike a chord, but decided not to, and allowed his hands to lie relaxed on the keys. It would be better to be silent. Yes. Her silence in the studio, his silence in the dining room — and the battlefront, of course, halfway between, in the hall. But the finest irony of all, and the most infuriating part of the whole thing — if it hadn’t also been really damned funny — was that after having an affair, and in entire and successful secrecy, he should now be suspected when he was innocent. It was ridiculous, it made him feel helpless. In fact, what he really wanted to do was to go straight to them and tell them about it. “Look here, you blankety-blank fools and idiots, you low-minded suspicious imbeciles — do you think if I ever did have an affair I’d conduct it in such a way that simpletons like yourselves would entertain even the shadowiest ghost of a suspicion of it? Of course not. As is proved by the fact that when I was living in Boston I did have an affair, which none of you ever guessed for one minute. And now, you poor prunes, when I merely go to town three days a week, to work, your feculent little fancies have nothing better to do than this! Go crawl into a cesspool, will you? where you belong. Or into one of Mr. Will Pepoon’s bags!”

The visual image amused him, he half-smiled, involuntarily struck a note on the piano, then got up and went down into the rain-sounding kitchen for a glass of water. Amusing — yes! But the whole thing was now too complex, too difficult — and the feeling of insecurity, too, was beginning to be oppressive. Unfair, that he should have to bear the extra burden, just now, along with all this, of knowing about little Miss Twitchell — unfair, also, that into the same day should have come not only Nora’s letter, but that subtly disturbing dream as well. Why in god’s name had they had to quarrel now, when—

When what?

He averted his eyes from the thought, from the memory of the walk with Buzzer, in which the sun-bright fog and the queer dream and the letter had all been so deliciously and magically woven together. It was as if he had winced; and instead he turned the cold water tap quickly on and off several times, in the kitchen sink, to watch the indicator in the dial drop down and then shoot up again. Twenty-eight. He could go out and start the engine, of course, and run it for five minutes, just to test it — but actually there was water enough for two days. And besides, there was the “tempest,” Ratio’s tempest, it was raining. Tempest! These absurd Cape Codders! Like calling the ceiling the “wall,” and the walls “side-walls.”

He turned down the little fishtail of yellow flame in the reflector lamp on its shelf behind the stove, walked slowly into the dining room, and blew out the candle on the piano; then proceeded, slowly again, his hands in his pockets, to the studio. It was exactly as he had foreseen. Enid was standing — simply standing—in the middle of the room, behind her wicker chair. Her fists were on her hips, and she was facing, but not looking at, the fire — the narrowed eyes were looking downward at nothing. For a second they lifted to meet his — a curious and remote look, as if it came from far beneath, far below, quickly and blindly tipped upward and then tipped down again. There was something doll-like in the movement, something inhuman and mechanical, but also pathetic. Then, addressing the fire, she said slowly:

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“That’s up to you!”

“Why is it up to me?”

“You started the whole thing, it’s all your creation, your action, your aggression—I haven’t done anything—”

“You persist in that, don’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“I wish you could see that my aggression, as you call it—”

“Oh, call it anything you like!”

“Will you let me finish? — is simply a symptom. Of the deeper grievances that I’ve tried to tell you about, and that you won’t face. When I try to talk to you about them, you merely take to abuse and swearing.”

“What nonsense!”

“It’s true. As just now when I presumed to suggest that a little of your imaginative sympathy with Buzzer might well come to me — and all you could do was accuse me of jealousy.”

“And wasn’t it?”

“No!”

“Oh. I beg your pardon.”

“And besides, what you were really doing, was evading the point. Exactly as you always do. You didn’t want to face the fact that you don’t any longer give me that kind of imaginative sympathy. Do you.”

“I wasn’t aware of it. Perhaps I don’t. But if I don’t, is it any wonder? You don’t make yourself very attractive when you do this sort of thing, you know — you can’t drive me with a whip and then expect me to come to you with imaginative sympathy! Good god, I never heard anything so idiotic. Yes, and let me tell you another thing, while we’re on the subject — one that I wouldn’t have supposed a woman would ever have to be told by a man, either — and that is this: the one thing you cannot do in a marriage is demand love, or understanding, or sympathy, or whatever you want to call it, at the point of a pistol. You cannot do that. It’s fatal. There is nothing so calculated to freeze every spark of feeling — the mere demanding of it kills it. Feelings can’t be probed and bullied like that, you’ve got to leave them alone. And it’s bad enough, by god, to have you make the mistake — without my then having to explain it to you! Where does that leave me? A hell of a long way off, I’m afraid.”

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

“There’s nothing clever about it — it’s the unfortunate truth.”

“I see. So if I’m unhappy, of course it’s a mistake to say so. I mustn’t complain, on the penalty of making things still worse by alienating you. It’s a very ingenious little system, isn’t it? Oh, very. I’m just supposed to eat my heart out in silence. And if I hate this life here and hate all these people and hate being alone so much and hate the work and the dirt and the dishes and the everlasting social drabness and boredom of it, not to mention only seeing you half the week, and even then being pushed off by you because you want to work—”

“Go on!”

“I will go on. If I hate all this until I’m sick, and feel wretched day in and day out of the days on end when I’m alone, worrying about the money and how to make ends meet, or to keep up appearances, I’m just expected by you to say nothing. Why? Why? What do I get out of it? Oh, I know, all that nonsense of yours about plain living and high thinking, about living the natural and honest life of our Pilgrim ancestors, and being independent — but it’s no good for a woman, I can’t stand it much longer, I’m being starved, I warn you, Timothy.”

“I see. So it’s like that. You won’t stick to your bargain.”

“There was no bargain.”

“There was an agreement.”

“An agreement to try it, yes!”

“And certainly for a longer period than this. Long enough for me to see how my own work would go, to see what I could do.”

“But what have you done? Nothing.”

“Nothing! That’s what you always say, isn’t it? The truth is, and for me it’s a damned bitter truth, that you never even bother to look at my work, you don’t take any longer the slightest interest in it, except insofar as it might make some money, you don’t know what I’m doing. Things have changed a lot in five years, haven’t they? By god, yes. It makes me laugh. I can remember when you used to ask to see what I was doing, in the first year or two — and when we were engaged you could think of nothing else. But nowadays all I get from you is the old parrot cry of why not do portraits, why not do portraits—”

“Well, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry! Good god almighty.”

“Besides, if you’re not altogether sure of yourself, how can you expect me to be sure of you?”

“You were sure enough when we were engaged, weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes — I was. But don’t forget that we were both very young.”

“Of course! And now we’re grown up, aren’t we? And must put away these childish things — is that it? I suppose you think my career is finished? I suppose you think I ought to give it up entirely, and do nothing but teach — is that it? Come on, let’s hear you say it!”

“Will you please stop twisting my words? I merely meant that it was natural enough, when we were both young, that we should feel confident.”

“Ah. And natural enough now that we should be disillusioned. You are disillusioned, aren’t you?”

“No — but disappointed! It hasn’t seemed to me—”

“Yes, go on, let’s have it.”

“—that your work has matured much. It seems to me to be still young and unformed.”

“Oh, yes, I know — adolescent. Why not stick to your favorite word!”

“In a way, yes.”

“Gosh, what a comfort that is! Unformed and adolescent — which I suppose by implication applies to me too. After eight years of work and sweat and passion — by god, it’s too funny. It’s funny either way — funny as the devil if you’re right, funny as hell if you’re wrong. And if Karl sees power in it, well, then, Karl is adolescent too. We’re all adolescent, the whole lot of us — which is just what you’ve really been maintaining all along — as, of course, so conspicuously in the Jim Connor episode!”

“Candidly, yes!”

“Very well, then, Ee — we’ve come to a definite parting of the ways. That’s flat. From now on, my work will be private. I don’t want you to know a thing about it, or to inquire about it, or to look at it. It’s going to be none of your damned business. If you have no faith in it, as has become increasingly clear, then you can have no part in it. And all the more so because of the very fact that I do myself feel unsure about it. It’s bad enough to have to fight my own self-doubts, but I can’t have an additional enemy in my own house — and that’s what you’ve become. So from now on, as far as my career is concerned, I’m going my own way.”

“Is that fair? You asked for my opinion and I gave it—”

“The first law of life is self-preservation!”

“I see. So you’re going to separate yourself even more from me, as if you hadn’t already separated yourself quite enough, with this arrangement of living in the country and working in town. And that’s all right for your precious career, but what about mine?”

“Yours!”

“Yes, mine. That surprises you, doesn’t it? To think that I should expect a career? And that’s funny, too. Women don’t really exist, do they? Not for you, they don’t! It never occurs to you that nature intended us for something, and something beyond just being your slaves.”

“Slaves. Don’t be an ass!”

“Aren’t you being rather an ass yourself? I hate you when you talk like that.”

“You can hate all you like, but I won’t listen to such damned silly nonsense.”

“Why not? Are you afraid of it? That’s it, poor Timothy, you’re afraid of it, aren’t you? You can’t really face a woman, can you? You can’t face or understand her necessities, and so therefore you simply deny them. Absurdly simple for you, isn’t it? Much too simple. And it won’t work. I’ve got to live, too — whether with or without you — and there’s a minimum of love and happiness and well-being without which it’s impossible. I’m a woman, I was made for those things, I need them — oh, it’s no use your laughing — it may sound like platitudes, but it’s true. And I want more children while I’m young, I want and need babies, I want them, but I’m not allowed to have them because of your wonderful career, and the necessity of living economically for it, and without servants—”

“May I remind you that we agreed about that—”

“Oh, we agreed about it, all right.”

“Then I fail to see what you’re kicking about?”

“But I was a fool to agree, I was signing my own death warrant, I ought to have known better than to do it — I did it only because I loved you, and wanted to give you a chance — and anyway I thought it might somehow work, and that if you were happy you would be more generous—”

“More generous! What more could I possibly have given you!”

“Oh, I don’t mean only money, and servants, and the obvious things, like that — I mean the intangibles, too, I mean affection, I mean companionship — being talked to, for instance, you never talk to me any more—”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. It’s been true almost ever since Buzzer was born. You’ve increasingly left me alone by myself, it never even occurs to you to have a conversation with me, in the evening, unless other people are present, or to take me for a walk, as you do Buzzer.”

“Why, I never heard anything so ridiculous and untrue in my life! What on earth are you talking about — a conversation!”

“Oh, it’s true. You stop and think about it. From the time Buzzer was born, and the next six months, when I was so tied down, and couldn’t do things with you as much — that was the beginning, and it’s got steadily worse ever since. When do you ever talk to me? What do you ever discuss with me? Oh, no, it’s your old superiority complex, I suppose, your feeling that the female isn’t your intellectual equal—”

“What absolute nonsense — you simply don’t know what you’re saying! Good lord, what do you think marriage is? Do you think two people can go on indefinitely, day after day, year after year, holding set-piece conversations, polite little discussions, with each other — is that your idea? Heaven forbid — it would drive me mad. You can’t do things like that. Life isn’t like that. We may not have any beautiful highbrow Platonic dialogues at breakfast, or while we do the dishes, but to say that we don’t have any talk at all is simply an outrageous and thumping lie. We talk all the time — morning, noon, and night — it may be casual and fragmentary — of course, it is — but when two people are as intimate as we are that’s what talk naturally becomes. Good god, Enid, you really are becoming impossible. What’s the use of discussing anything with you if you’re going to misconceive and misconstrue every mortal thing like this?”

“You’re very glib — you can always defend yourself, can’t you? By turning your back on the facts. You know what I’m saying is true. And it’s deeper than that, it’s more than that — it isn’t only your not talking with me, it’s everything of that kind. It’s your never thinking of taking me anywhere, or planning anything with me, any more. I don’t mean anything important, I mean just little things. How many shared pleasures do we have any more? Precious few, and you know it. And it’s because you’ve turned away your affection, and companionship, partly because you’ve turned them on to Buzzer (and you needn’t stare at me like that, it’s true, and it’s perfectly natural! I felt it at the time, and I’ve felt it ever since) — you’ve more and more separated yourself, withdrawn yourself — but where is it going to lead us? We can’t go on like this, I can’t go on, it’s drying me up, it’s making me mean and hard and selfish—”

“I see. It’s all going to be fathered on me, is it? No, Enid, that won’t work. I’m not going to swallow that, not by a damned sight. You get this into your head and keep it in your head, that the real trouble has been your constant and increasing interference with everything connected with my work and career. From the moment Buzzer was born, you’ve ceased to co-operate with me — from that very moment. That was the signal for the beginning of the pressure, and you’ve never relaxed it for a second. Oh, no! You evidently made up your mind that a possible artist was all very well, but that a breadwinner was much more important — so you went to work in every conceivable way, trying to wean me from my friends, or to give me new and ‘better’ ones, and to change subtly the whole mode of our life in a direction you thought more suitable. And with mother’s help, too—that was clear enough, that heavy and priggish hand from New Bedford! We had to live in the right street, and know the right people, and do the right things — and so, of course, more money was needed — and so the vicious circle had rounded on itself. And then it began to be suggested that perhaps my work had better be changed — or perhaps I could do something else, like society portraits. Pretty damned cunning! And the whole of my original idea, my ambition, my career — good god, it just makes me rage to think of it — was to be scrapped, and for what? For financial security and social ambition. And that being so, what it comes down to is this: that you married me under false pretences. You were keen enough on my being a painter beforehand, weren’t you? And you swore you would help me in every possible way. Well—now look at it. If it’s blown up, it’s your own silly fault. And I’ll tell you this right now — that I’m not going to be driven a single step farther. My surrender today about Jim is the last I’m going to make. From now on I’m going to stick to my own notion of how to run my career, and I don’t want any interference from any one — you or your mother either!”

“I see — and you complain about lack of co-operation! You intend simply to dictate, is that it?”

“In matters vital to me, I certainly do. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“And what about me? What about the things that are vital to me?”

“Well — what, for instance?”

“Well — love, for instance.”

“Love! What do you know about love!”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“It was a flat enough question, wasn’t it? What do you know about love? Can you love? Have you ever really loved me for a minute? I very much doubt it. If you had, how could you possibly have done all these things to me!”

“So you think I don’t love you.”

“Well — do you?”

“I think I’ll leave that to you. You seem to know everything, don’t you? So perhaps you’ll tell me.”

“Well, I think I will. I think perhaps for once I will.”

“Do.”

“And it goes for all of you — the whole New Bedford and Boston lot of you — the whole cold-smoked egotistical lot of you. There’s really something wrong with you, you New England women — something esthetically wrong with you, something wrong with the pulse, you’re not quite human. And it was summed up, I think, quite well, by a Greenwich Village poet who evidently knew what he was talking about. He said: ‘I have eaten apple pie for breakfast in the New England of your sensuality.’”

“Oh!”

“Yes. Very pretty, isn’t it?”

“That’s the cruelest thing—”

“Cruel—!”

She spun suddenly on her heels, turning her back, flashing a hand towards her face, but not before he had seen the quick tears starting, the lovely mouth quivering and arched with pain. Her shoulders were trembling, she was biting the back of her hand and trembling, but she hadn’t made a sound — and then (as suddenly as she had turned away) she turned back again, went quickly, blindly, past him into the hall, and across it and into the bathroom. He heard the door close, heard the sound of running water — she had turned the taps on, to drown out the sound of her crying. She was standing there crying — and as he waited irresolute, half wanting to listen and half not — for he had never heard Ee really crying before — it seemed to him that something very queer and profound had happened to him in that instant when she had turned away, with the tears starting on to the back of her hand, on to her rings, and her mouth taking that extraordinary shape of unhappiness. For one thing, her mouth, in that moment, had seemed to him more beautiful than it had ever seemed before — as if, suddenly, it had taken on a new and deeper meaning. All of her, in fact, had changed startlingly in that instant. She had become tragically different, a separate and unknown, an unhappy and perhaps somehow doomed, person — and a person, moreover, who might already have resumed her liberty of action! What would happen to her — what wouldn’t happen to her — what would become of her? Shapes of disaster, misery, death — the feeling of catastrophe again — but now immediate and dreadful: and himself perhaps powerless and exiled. The distance between them had become immense; and yet at the same time it seemed to him that he had never before seen her so clearly. He remembered thinking of her as a ship’s figurehead, borne backward away from him by her own will — but that had been nothing, that had been a mere pretense — this was real. It was as if she had gone.

But had she resumed her liberty of action?

Was that what it meant?

Had he at last hurt her too much? Hurt her so much that now there would be no going back — no bridging of the gulf that had fallen between them?

He stood still and listened. He stepped softly into the hall and listened. He could hear nothing — nothing but the sound of the running water in the basin. That and the rain — and then a car rumbling over the loose boards of the bridge, coming nearer, its Klaxon skirling angrily as it shot up the road into the village. And then the silence again, for the gentle persistent sound of the rain, the sound of running water.

He went back into the studio, walked twice round it, circling the wicker chair, avoiding the tripod legs of the easel — paused to press back the front log in the fire with his shoe — then pulled one of the window curtains aside and looked out at the street. Nobody — nothing — it was deserted: nothing but the sad autumnal rain, the rain which would probably last all night and all day. The Rileys’ house was dark — but, of course, Mr. Riley had turned in early, tomorrow was a fishing day, he would be down at the Town Landing, with his bait boxes, at four in the morning. Going down the river in the rain, the dirty blue boat stuttering loudly past the sleeping houses, past the moored yachts at the lower village; and then down the channel, past the breakwater and the bell buoy, to the Sound, the open sea, a mile of lobster pots along the sandy shore. How simple, how good, how solid — how reassuring, if life were always as well arranged as that! Yet he had been a friend, hadn’t he, of Miss Twitchell — Miss Twitchell had often called there with her basket of flowers, standing there on the porch, Mrs. Riley’s white, sharp, New England face peering around the half-opened door, the door which she always held tightly clutched in her hands — he and his wife had been her friends, but what good had that done her? She had lain for two days in Indian Pond without their even knowing it.…

He let the curtain fall back into place, opened the door to the little front hall, with its wooden hat pegs on the white paneling, and there on the floor, as he had foreseen, was the pink cart. A doll, too, squatted against the wall, its china arms upraised, the dead blue eyes half-closed, and a level fringe of brown hair showing under the bonnet’s edge. “Just a little pink cart”—Jim Connor had said: the typical, the eternal, pink cart of childhood, with the yellow tongue, the bands of silvery metal round the wheels, and the crude bright floral design on the hubs. How she would love it — how she would love the doll, too, and take it for rides round the garden — and how good of Jim! How good of him to think of it, and do it, in the middle of his own troubles — to go to a shop and find these things! A Messiah, as Kitty had said? Perhaps not. But there were times when he was very like.

He picked them up, and carried them slowly through the studio into the hall, where he put them down on the window seat. It was odd — but it seemed to him, for some reason, that he was noticing everything, every detail. As he passed through the studio it was as if he enumerated each thing that he saw. The wood basket, of pale woven wood, and a pine log with silver moss on it; the brass Cape Cod firelighter on the brick hearth, with a splayed red reflection of the lampshade down its side; the black iron rosettes, like black pond lilies, of the firedogs; a wavering comb of flame, fine-toothed and golden, just beginning to play up, and retreat, between the uppermost logs of the fire; and Karl’s little etching in the corner — his first — of a Mexican adobe hut, round-doored, in snow-bright moonlight: he had observed each of these things in turn, and subtly as if out of some deep necessity or purpose. Or perhaps simply to be reassured, to be given back his confidence?

But why?

How ridiculous!

Just the same—

In the hall, standing by the stove again — the stove in which perhaps he ought to lay a fire — he listened, swaying slightly in his effort to remain still. He heard nothing, nothing beyond the running of the water — and then it seemed to him wrong to listen, or only to listen — wrong to be there in secret, listening — so he went hesitantly into the dark dining room, and down into the kitchen, and back into the dining room again. He struck a match and relighted the candle on the piano top — for it would be absurd to be found just standing there in the dark, doing nothing — and looked up once more at Famous Place to See Moon; but this time without seeing it.

— Famous Place to See Moon! Christ!

He said it aloud, with surprising anger and bitterness, stressing ironically each word in turn; swung about, his hands in his khaki pockets, to stare towards the dark Purington house; and then found himself, without having made any decision about it, knocking at the white bathroom door.

“Enid,” he said.

The water was still running — he listened with averted face, breathing rather quickly. Perhaps she couldn’t hear him? He knocked again.

“Enid, please!”

There was no answer.

“Enid!”

“Will you please go away, Timothy?”

The voice was muffled and distant — the water seemed to be running louder.

“No, I won’t go away. Will you please let me in?”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Ee, dear, listen — I’m sorry I said that, terribly sorry—”

“It doesn’t matter — any more, Timothy.”

“Of course it matters, darling. Darling, don’t be absurd.”

“It doesn’t matter; nothing matters. Timothy, will you please go away?”

“No, Ee. I won’t go away. I’m going to stay right here till you open the door. Now, darling, don’t be silly—”

The sound of water seemed to have diminished — perhaps one of the taps had been turned off. But there was no answer, no other sound. He listened, his cheek against the door — he tried pressing it, but it was latched. He rattled it again.

“Ee, dear, did you hear what I said? Please!”

There was again a long pause, and then Enid’s voice, now a little clearer:

“Yes, I heard you—”

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Darling, do forgive me. I didn’t mean it, I was just too angry — and let me come in, won’t you, please?”

“No, Tip—”

“Please, darling—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t, Tip — not now. I look too dreadful—”

“As if that mattered — but we can’t leave it like this, darling, it was all so wrong and bad — are you still listening, darling?”

“Yes, I’m listening—”

He grinned, privately, at the door, and said:

“You’re running much too much water, you know!”

“Oh!”

“In every sense of the word. And I’m very much ashamed of myself, and I love you very much. And if you don’t come out this minute I’ll break the door down. See?”

“But I can’t, looking like this—”

“Oh, yes, you can.”

“Well—”

There was a pause, the water was turned off, a little interval of silence; and then he heard her footsteps coming towards him, the obstinate resonant little click of the door hook, and the door swung slowly inward. She was pale, she was trying to smile, there were still tears in her eyes, she was shy — she was as shy as she had been when he had first told her that he was in love with her. Her hands held behind her back, her mouth trembling a little, she looked up at him, the pupils of her eyes very large and dark, very hurt, but very tender, too. The arrogance had gone from her — and in the moment before either of them moved it was as if he heard, high above them somewhere, the swift wingbeats of hatred, flashing past and away — and then he put out his hand and took the green-smocked elbow in it and drew her towards him. She didn’t offer to kiss him — she merely leaned her cheek against his breast.

“Darling, will you forgive me—”

“Of course, Tip, dear, if you’ll forgive me, too—”

“No, I’m afraid I was the naughty one — but oh, what a relief—!”

“Isn’t it heavenly—!”

“Just to be together again, after all these days and days—”

“I’ve been very hard and mean and selfish, Tip, I’m so dreadfully ashamed, but I’ll do better—”

“No, darling, no. It’s only that things have been difficult for us—”

“Do you think so? But aren’t we silly to hurt each other so much!”

“I didn’t mean any of it, darling. I didn’t mean a single word. Don’t you believe a thing I said—”

“And you too, Tip dear, I was demented—”

“Not a single word. I didn’t know what I was saying. I don’t know what got into me, I just wanted to hurt and hurt you, and said anything I could think of that would hurt you—”

“That’s just what I did, Tip. It’s as if a demon had got hold of us, isn’t it, and jangled us — do you suppose for some purpose? It’s all so meaningless!”

“I know. Good god, what a pair of fools we are — you’d think after all this time together we’d have a little more sense, wouldn’t you?”

“We mustn’t do it again, we must promise not to do it again—”

“No, Ee darling, we won’t — and isn’t it absurd—”

“What, dear?”

“—that it’s really because we love each other so much that we can hurt each other so, and perhaps feel we have to — I wonder if that’s it? And I do love you so much, Ee, I simply adore you — all day, in spite of everything, I’ve been adoring you, you don’t know how much—”

“Really, Tip?”

“Really, Ee — like anything. Even in my rage about things I couldn’t forget it, it seemed to me I’d never loved you so much. It was all really damned funny — what with that blasted cesspool, and Jim Connor, and that dreadful little ‘artist’ in the taxi, and everything — and all the time I was simply bursting with love—”

“Darling, how sweet and funny you are!”

“And you, darling, what a cold and clammy cheek you have — aren’t you ashamed of crying like that? Were you crying?”

“Yes, I was crying — It was funny, it’s a long time since I’ve cried — I guess maybe it took you to make me cry — perhaps it’s a good thing! Anyway, it’s a testimonial to your power!”

“What a thing to say to your husband!”

“Oh, dear—!”

She sighed, smiled, looked up at him quickly, then began rubbing her nose rabbitlike against his coat. It suddenly occurred to him how comic the whole thing was, their standing here in the bathroom door, for such a purpose, but then, abruptly, he remembered—

“Listen, darling,” he said.

“Yes, Tip, dear.”

“No — I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better not?”

He shook his head.

“What, dear — what is it!”

“My lovely Endor, it’s nothing to do with this — but I suddenly thought of it, it’s been so much on my mind all evening. It’s a terrible thing that Terence told me tonight, I met him down at the lower village—”

“Ought I to hear it?”

“Yes — it will shock you, darling — but as a matter of fact it ought to do us both good. Maybe at least it will remind us to come to our senses! Miss Twitchell was found drowned this morning in Indian Pond.”

“Oh, no, Tip—!”

“Yes. Some small boys found her. And they now think she’d been dead for two days. I wanted so much to tell you, Ee — I thought it might even bring us together — but I couldn’t, somehow, with things so unhappy between us—”

“Oh, the poor, poor creature—! But why, Tip, why?”

“Nobody seems to know. It was suicide, though. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that.”

“And I meant to call on her, and didn’t — or to have her to tea — and she was so nice, remember, about those lilies of the valley—”

“Yes, I know — those lilies of the valley have been haunting me. I’ve been thinking about them ever since, and about how typical it was of her.”

“Oh, how awful, how simply awful. Oh, Tip—”

“Yes, darling—”

“Don’t ever stop loving me. Don’t ever let me stop loving you, will you? Don’t believe the dreadful things I say!”

“Of course not, darling, of course not—”

“Poor, poor little Miss Twitchell, all by herself. What could have made her do such a thing?”

“Now, Ee, darling, I didn’t mean to start you crying again — you’ve done enough for one day — and in the bathroom of all places!”

“It’s a very good place—! But, yes, I mustn’t. Can I dry my eyes on your sleeve?”

“Of course!”

She gave a quick smile, a last tear fell as she closed her eyes to rub them against his shoulder, and as he held her he felt the suppressed shudder rise in her breast and then slowly subside again. She sighed, leaned her head on his shoulder, and relaxed sleepily, her eyes still closed. He kissed the white forehead, ran a fingertip along the curve of one eyebrow — but then he thought he heard an odd little sound from upstairs. He turned his head to listen. The Unitarian Church clock began striking at the same moment, he would have to wait till it was finished (—and an early start in the morning, good lord—) eight! nine! ten! And then, yes, the same obscure sound again—

“Listen,” he said.

“Yes, darling?”

“I think it’s Buzzer — I’d better go up and see. And I suppose, my darling, we ought to go to bed — It’s Boston for me in the morning!”

“Oh, of course! Well, if you’ll go up to her, Tip, dear — unless you’d rather I did—”

“No, I’ll go, if you’ll put the house to bed. There’s a light I left in the kitchen—”

“All right then, darling, run along!”

He took the candle from the top of the piano, and went lightly, swiftly, up the stairs into the smell and sound of night, the smell and sound of rain. And cold, too — the upper hall was damp and cold, a little cave of autumnal rain-sound — good lord, it would be winter in no time. The room whirled as he moved the candle, above the sound of the rain he could hear Buzzer’s low continuous crying, and when he stooped through the low door he found her sitting up in her bed, and crying with her eyes closed, the backs of her hands pressed to her cheeks.

“Why, Buzzer, what is it, my pet? Did you have a bad dream? — There, that’s right, you lie down, you’ll get all cold — and tuck these hands in — Was that what it was, my pet? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Mmmmmm!”

“I guess so. But don’t you worry — everything’s going to be all right now, see?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Good night. And go to sleep.”

He stooped and kissed the already sleeping head, stroked the small forehead — once, twice, thrice — heard the breathing pause and deepen. What had she been dreaming about — what truth, what terror, what despair? Perhaps the dead starling — the starling which hadn’t been dead? Or perhaps, was it possible — for children had such extraordinary divinations in these things, a sort of sixth sense, like cats — perhaps she had somehow known? How dreadful — if so, how dreadful! He must tell Ee about it — they must never do it again.…

His candle uplifted, he waited at the head of the narrow stairs — he wanted to see her come up the stairs. When at last she came, holding her own candle before her, he said:

“Would you mind standing still, right there, till I tell you something? Till I ask you a question?”

“Why, what is it, Tip? Was it Buzzer?”

“Yes, it was Buzzer. She’s all right — it was only some funny little dream she had.”

“Well—!”

She looked up at him, from halfway up the stairs, one lovely knee in the silvery corduroy skirt advanced above the other — her face candlelit, smiling doubtfully, a little puzzled.

“It’s only that I thought it would be nice to ask you from a distance, just to see you when I ask it — these things are usually settled at such close quarters, see?”

“Yes, darling, go on—”

“Well, it’s only this. How would you feel, my darling, if I was to say that I thought it would be nice if we were to have a son.”

“Oh, Tip!”

“And if a woman can look as lovely as that, it’s high time, too!”

“What nonsense! Darling!”

“No nonsense at all. Besides, there’s an omen. I had an omen!”

“What was your precious omen?”

“Cut all things or gather, the moon in the wane—

But sow in increasing or give it his bane.

“Two lines I suddenly remembered out of an old book.”

“But what do they mean? — Tip?”

“What do they mean? You just come up and go to bed, my darling; and I’ll go down and brush my teeth; and then — well, we’ll just see!”

“But, Tip, have you considered — I mean, all the things—”

“There aren’t any things — and I have considered. And to hell with considering anyway! I want a son, see? Even if he’s born, like me, with a cleft palette in his hand!”

“How ridiculous you are, darling!”

“Yes, I guess maybe I am — I guess maybe I am! But being ridiculous isn’t always such a bad thing to be.…”