Return to Night (16 page)

The gate of hell had opened, then, below him. Already the pull of its descending spiral was making his soul tenuous and misshapen; in another instant its disintegration would begin. At the very last, some reserve in him held him together for a despairing thrust upward, such as the drowning make; and in this penultimate moment, the Other had come, to whom in his extremity he had forgotten to pray. Unremembered, unimplored, moved only by the mercy which was her being, she had come to him from her own place, hidden in its shadow like a veil, and lifted him out of hell by the hand.

Because she was there, pain and a heart-wrenching sickness had been like friends assuring him of safe return. For a little while he had been afraid to let her go, lest he might drift away again into the dark; and she must have known this, for although he could not speak, and did not know even the place in which they were, she had been close and consoling and had refused no comfort for which he had asked her; of this he was sure, though it was growing hard, now, to keep the fragments of true memory apart from the rest which was also, but differently, true. He could bring it all back, even now, if he shut his eyes.

When, after so long, he had found her again, it had started him at first to find her so different in daily life, her charity so armored and disguised. It scarcely seemed, sometimes, that she remembered. But the armor had never deceived him. It made one, superficially, a little shy and uncertain how to approach her, and he wondered sometimes if, supposing one had met her first in the ordinary way, one would have understood her at all, or would not even have been a little scared of her. Such speculations were pointless, for they had met as they must.

“Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories …” He remembered the rest, and caught himself up quickly. If he began to let himself think like that, when he was with her he would remember it and wouldn’t be able to look at her, wondering if she knew.

Nothing was so strange about it all as the need of external behavior, having to keep in mind what stage of an outward acquaintance they had got to, and observing the social rules. It was practically impossible to think of her as an entity of the polite world who had a right to expect that one should return her hospitality suitably, and even, of all impossible incongruities, invite her home. (But please God. not today.) It was a violation of her mystery; one should go to her, always. But even if she knew that, she couldn’t say; and neither could he.

The sky seemed as clear as ever. It would probably be all right. At least, there was no need to worry about it yet.

“Julian.”

“Hullo, dear.”

He saw at once, as his mother stepped out onto the terrace, that he was forgiven again. She was dressed for the garden in the old cardigan and tweed skirt he knew so well. Suddenly everything settled, the sunlight even seemed more stable.

“I was wondering where you’d got to. The Laytons want us to go there to dinner on Tuesday. I told her I was sure you were free.”

“Yes, of course.” The Laytons were a bore, but in his reassurance and relief he was glad to appear delighted.

“We really must go into Cheltenham, I think, one day this week, and get you some white shirts. I’ve just been going through them; that Oxford laundry must have been disgraceful.”

“I suppose it was rather fierce. What are you going to wear?” He always asked her this, knowing that she liked it.

“I think the gray. Of course if I wore the blue, it goes with the little jacket we chose in town. But I can’t make up my mind if it’s really me.”

“Of course it is. That’s why I made you have it.”

“Well, dear, I’ll wear that if you like. I chose it to please you; I had meant to get something much quieter. You give me extravagant ideas, I sometimes think.”

“Nonsense, you can carry it off. It looks rather regal.”

“But, you absurd boy, I can’t look regal at the Laytons’. I’d better wear the gray.” He knew that she wanted him to persuade her, and did so.

“Where’s your jacket, Julian?” she asked when the point was settled. “That pullover’s far too thin to wear out-of-doors this weather. I don’t want to have you ill again, after all I went through last year.”

“I was just going in.”

“I’m going round the garden. Fetch your jacket, and you can come with me. It’s so beautiful now in the sun.”

Yes, it was beautiful now, in the sun. Immediately it had come out from the silver edge of its concealing clouds, how easily the cold mist could be forgotten. As they went down from the terrace into the wilderness-garden below, he almost found himself wishing that he weren’t going this afternoon, in case any awkwardness should crop up about it. Soon, of course; he had been looking forward to it a good deal; tomorrow, perhaps. And yet, as he knew from experience, once on the way he would be glad to have made the effort; like acting, or slipping off to ride Biscuit, these truancies gave him a mingled sense of value and of guilt. Sometimes he had gone when it was very difficult; when, having made no arrangement beforehand, there was no need, and when the worry involved outweighed all anticipated pleasure. He didn’t know why; only that if he failed the impulse, he would not feel, as one should, good and unselfish, but defeated and accused.

“Look,” he said, “I thought we should find something here,” and showed her the first violets in a sheltered dip of the long grass. She said, “How quick of you, dear, I should never have seen them.”

By lunchtime, a few small light clouds were drifting across the sun. But there was still no sign of anything serious; he would chance it, he thought.

“See what’s come for you,” his mother said as they sat down. “The post gets later and later. It’s that new postman; I’m sure he finishes this end so that he can drink at the Crown.”

Julian deplored the postman, excused himself, and slit the thick envelope along the top. He would rather have kept it, but she wouldn’t have liked that. They always opened their letters at the table; it was a nice, sociable custom, she said. He had recognized at a glance the rickety spacing of Chris’s typewriter, and fished inside for the letter, leaving the wad of typescript where it was. So Chris had finished it at last, he thought (carefully concealing his quickened interest); if it shaped up to plan, it ought to amount to something. If only he had managed, this time, to get the hang of speakable dialogue. Chris’s stuff always read well, of course; too well.

“What a fat, intriguing envelope, dear. Is it a catalogue, or what?”

“No, it’s from Chris Tranter. You’ve met him, I think. He came on the barge with us at Eights. Thick, fair man with a square face.”

“Oh, yes. He brought me an ice, but it had melted. I remember he was quite mute until the boats came by, and then gave a perfectly deafening bellow almost in my car.”

“No, that would be Fox. Chris would talk till the race started, and then go to sleep.”

“How odd. Never mind, dear, read his letter and then you can tell me the news.”

Julian skimmed the page; he could read it again later.

…
so I haven’t altered the structure, essentially, except to write in a short scene for the brother and the prostitute in Act II, which I think gives the note better for what is coming. The rest is cut pretty near the bone. As I said before, what I principally want from you is to vet the speech rhythms. I’m a hopelessly visual type and shall never cure myself of primarily seeing words. You are almost completely auditory: so just mark the margin against anything you personally would find difficulty in putting over. Thank God I won’t be there to see you trail off with that gluey expression as if you were being choked with bread sauce. By the way, when are you coming to town; surely the component parts’ of your skull are properly gummed up by now? There’s a man I want you to meet because, seriously, if this play gets taken I want to put you forward for Anthony: you’re the only person I shall ever really see in the part. Don’t write back and say you’d rather do Old Ike, because that one’s wearing thin. I presume by this that you have managed to sell the acting idea to your people in some form or another; so unless you are absolutely set on rep., I don’t see …

“I always think it’s so odd of people, don’t you, to type their letters? It seems so unintimate, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He returned the sheet unobtrusively to its envelope. “It would be rather a waste of time for Chris not to type his, because no one except Chris would be able to read them.”

“Has he any interesting news?”

“Nothing special. He doesn’t get about very much.”

“He must be tied by his work, I suppose?”

“Sort of. He works quite hard.”

“You’re not very communicative about him, dear. Don’t you like him as much as you did?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Chris is all right. He’s in the Civil Service, actually. The Treasury, I think.”

“That doesn’t sound very exciting. Does he send you all his statistics? The envelope looks thick enough.”

He laughed accommodatingly. “Well, not quite. It’s only something he’s written he wants me to look over.”

“Well, dear, that’s
very
interesting. Is it novels he writes, or short stories? I should like to read it. Perhaps I should be more impartial than you would, being his friend.”

“I expect you would, really.” He knew that Chris had a violent hoodoo about displaying unaccepted work, and would never have sent it even to him without practical purpose. “I don’t know if you’d care much about it, though. He’s rather leftish and strong-spoken, and there’s a sub-plot that—”

“Well, my dear, I think for anyone of my generation you could call me quite broadminded, don’t you?”

“Oh, of course. I was just thinking that perhaps—”

“I should find it so much more interesting, knowing it was by a friend of yours I had actually met. What is it called?”

“Hungry Harvest.”

“What a queer title. It sounds almost a contradiction, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose that was the idea,”

“Yes, I see. That’s rather clever, isn’t it? You’re not getting on very fast with your lunch, dear, don’t let it get cold. If he wants his novel criticized, I expect he would be quite glad to get two different points of view.”

“Well, there is that.” He kept his mouth full, hoping she would start another subject, but it didn’t work. “The only thing is, it’s not finished, so he might not want it seen.”

“He must think very highly of
your
opinion, then, mustn’t he? Does he want you to suggest an ending?”

“Not quite that. He just wanted me to say if the dialogue sounded natural.”

She looked at her plate. “If it’s a play he sent you, Julian, why did you tell me all this time that it was a novel?”

“I don’t think I said, particularly.”

“You didn’t correct me, did you? … I should have thought it would have been much better to have sent it to someone connected with the stage.”

“He will, I expect, when he’s finished it.”

“I’m afraid I should be of very little help in criticizing a play. I should never have made such a foolish suggestion, if you had explained to me in the beginning. Now we must really get on with our lunch, or it will be ruined.”

Julian rediscovered the food on his plate, and, to avoid comment, pushed it down. The room itself looked different, and he realized that the sun had gone in again. Everything had been going so well. He wouldn’t be there at teatime. Things must be got right, somehow, before he went.

“Chris keeps trying,” he said casually. “I don’t suppose he’ll do anything with it. But his job’s dull, and it cheers him up to have someone take his stuff seriously. I’ll look it over sometime. he’ll be offended if I don’t.”

“Poor boy.” Her voice was a little warmer already. “Yes, it must be an interest for him. Don’t hurt his feelings about it: one can always find
something
to praise, can’t one? There’s too much faultfinding in the world, I think.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve had
such
a nice letter from the Matron of the Cottage Hospital. When people are so appreciative, it’s a pleasure to do anything one can to help. I think some time this week I shall let them have those old bound
Punches—
they’re rather out of date, but they would pass the time. I expect, for people in bed.”

Julian thought swiftly. The Cottage Hospital was only twenty minutes out of his way; it might simplify things.

“I’ll run them down for you this afternoon, if you like.”

“It’s hardly worth a special journey. One of us is sure to be passing before long.”

“I might as well.”

“The weather looks rather uncertain, or I might come with you, just for the run. What do you think? We could wait a little, and see if it clears.”

He got up, and walked to the window; not because it had not been clearly visible from where he sat.

“It doesn’t look up to much, at the moment.”

“It was beautiful, not long ago. I expect it will change again.”

“We’d probably get a better run tomorrow.”

“There’s the Women’s Institute tomorrow. Today would really be better.”

“I think it’s definitely blowing up for rain.” He recognized the insistence with which she would sometimes pursue a point for no reason but that his response had had some reserve; and he gathered his resources together. For one brief moment, he thought that after all he could ring up and put it off on the grounds that it looked like rain. But if he did, he would feel about
her
as he was feeling now about Chris. It couldn’t be lived with. No, the thing would just have to be handled with tact. He turned back to the table, smiling.

“Let’s think up something properly organized for tomorrow. Or shall we do something reckless and unpremeditated, to fill you with
élan
for the W.I.? I tell you what, I’ll wander round this afternoon seeking inspiration, and spring it on you out ol the void? No?” He leaned over the table toward her, making it as persuasive as possible.

“Please don’t be silly, Julian.”

Something shrank in him. He knew the tone, and even the words.

“You have such an exaggerated manner sometimes, dear. I don’t like it; it makes you seem insincere. I’m sure you don’t mean to be, but it’s an affectation, and you know how I hate that. We’ll think about tomorrow when it comes. I think you’re quite right about the weather today; it would probably have been disappointing. Really I have a thousand and one things to see to, and this would be a very good time to get them done.”