John Powys: Ducdame

“Please don’t, Lexie! I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want it.”

His face looked haggard as she pushed him back and she felt a wave of dangerous pity for him. How could he know that she had brought it to an end not because of indifference but because of the opposite of indifference? It was all right as long as she was a passive rag doll in his hands; but if she began to come to life — it wouldn’t do.

In a moment she became stiff as a block of wood; and though she still smiled at him and displayed no shadow of anger against him, he felt that, for that day at least, he must be just the friend again, just the kind, disinterested friend.

They both moved to the window and looked out.

“Damn these niceties and nuances!” he said to himself. “She’s in love with Rook and thinks it wrong to care for both of us. Yet she does care for both of us. Oh, when will human beings put all this business on a simple natural earthy basis?”

The look of the pools in the road reflecting the pale, chilly sunlight brought the girl’s mind back to her immediate trouble.

“What am I to do now, Lexie?” she whispered. “It must be nearly time for his meal. He’ll wonder where I am. He has to go to see Mrs. Drool this afternoon.” She stopped and shivered. “I can’t imagine what he says to these people or what he does. Think of seeing him sitting on a cottage chair!” And she suddenly burst into an uncomfortable laugh that made Lexie look at her very gravely.

“Nell, my dear,” he said after a pause, “I fancy the only thing to do now is to go back and endure it as well as you can for a little while. One never knows! I tell you, my sweet Nelly, one never knows! The world is much more malleable than people realize. Go on as you are for a little longer: something’s sure to happen.”

She did not seem to be listening very intently. Her eyes had left his face and were gazing into the distance. A curious, inscrutable look came over her features and her twisted mouth quivered.

“Very well, Lexie dear,” she said. “I will go back to him. Don’t bother to come down. I can let myself out.”

THERE was no reason why Cousin Ann shouldn’t have tripped over a tree root during her walk with Rook and strained her knee. People did stumble over things and hurt themselves.

There was no reason why she shouldn’t have answered Rook laughingly, jestingly, just as she did answer him: “I’d love you to do it for me!”

That was all. That was her way of flinging back his suggestion that he should “massage” the injured knee. It was natural enough. Nothing to complain of. They were old friends, old playmates from infancy. They met in a world totally outside her world. It was natural they should have their jokes. But it wasn’t a very pretty joke this time. If Minnie or Madge had made it she would have cried: “Don’t be vulgar!”

It was just that — just that Rook should make that sort of joke at all, that had driven her to make a scene. It wasn’t jealousy, as Rook had said. She wasn’t jealous of Ann Gore. It was only that she never could bear vulgarity. It made her sick in her stomach. And all men were like that, gentlemen and counter-jumpers, lords and bookmakers! They all loved to make vulgar jokes. But there was no need for Rook to get so angry. He ought to know that a girl doesn’t always mean what she says; especially when her feelings have been hurt. But that was the way. Men were so stupid. They took things wrongly. They listened to your words instead of caring what you felt.

Netta’s feet ware on the fender of her empty bedroom grate as these thoughts pounded and hammered in her indignant consciousness, making her head ache with the strain.

She had been too upset to ring for Pandie to light the fire. She did not want Pandie to see that she’d been crying. She did not want any one’s pity, least of all that of a gossiping servant.

Mercy! How cold it was and how the wind howled round the house! It didn’t feel like the morning, somehow. It felt like the afternoon; and yet it was only eleven — and all that trouble had happened since nine o’clock!

She rose stiffly to her feet and, though she was fully dressed, she snatched a cloak out of the cupboard and wrapped it round her neck like a shawl. Oh, what was that? — someone knocking at the door? A gentle knock; different from Pandie’s; different from Rook’s; who on earth was it?

She hurriedly hung up the cloak again and closed the cupboard. Then she glanced quickly round the room. Yes, it looked like a real lady’s room: the vase of flowers on the dressing table; the pillows undisturbed; no stray petticoats lying about. “Come in!” she called in a firm, quiet, self-controlled voice; and rubbed her cheeks with both hands.

The door opened and was shut again, very noiselessly shut; and Cousin Ann stood before her. Cousin Ann looked very young and very girlish; not nearly so athletic and sportsmanlike as usual. This look was partly explained by the fact that she still wore her nightgown and dressing gown and had tied her hair back with nothing but a broad ribbon; but it was also due to a certain psychological softness brought about by her recent hurt. Cousin Ann limped as she moved to Netta’s bed and sat down upon it. The other bed in the room, Rook’s bed, seemed to take an unkind pleasure at that moment in emphasizing its presence. “Why doesn’t one of you sit down on me?” it seemed to say. “I am here — Rook Ashover’s bed — and this encounter interests me greatly!”

“I couldn’t rest in that room,” were the first words Lady Ann uttered. “Pandie came and talked and talked; and Mrs. Ashover said she was coming; and so I thought I’d take refuge with you.”

“It’s very nice of you, Ann, I’m sure,” murmured the elder woman, catching sight of herself, as she spoke, in the great gilt mirror and feeling dismay at the lack of youth in her own face. “It’s very nice of you to come. Does your knee hurt you very much?”

Lady Ann glanced at the door. “Do you mind locking us in?” she said. The smile that accompanied these words had almost a schoolgirlish look of mischievous complicity.

Netta walked across the room and turned the key.

“I wish you’d massage me!” laughed Lady Ann, making a little half-playful groan of distress as she stretched herself out at full length on the bed.

“There, just there!” she murmured, struggling to rise on her elbow to draw her clothes aside.

“I see. I’ll do it!” interjected Netta. “There! Is that where it is? I expect when it swells up it will stop hurting. It isn’t swollen yet, is it?”

Lady Ann gave her a quick penetrating glance; but Netta’s face was grave and sympathetic. “No,” she said. “You can’t see very much, can you? But it feels perfectly awful.”

Netta sat down by the girl’s side and moved her fingers gently across a knee that might have belonged to Artemis herself. She could not help a faint pang of envy at the extraordinary whiteness of the skin she touched. With a scarcely perceptible movement she rearranged her visitor’s dressing gown and went on in silence, passing her fingers up and down the injured knee.

“How dark it is!” the younger girl cried. “And how the wind does howl! I fancy there must be a storm coming up.”

“It’s not so very dark,” said Netta quietly, letting her hands sink wearily. “It’s gray. I noticed it directly I got up. It’s all gray, the sky, the garden, and everything. Rook said this was the sort of weather when you can see the wind! You know the way he talks! It’s funny sometimes. It makes a person laugh.”

Lady Ann smiled and let her fingers seek those of her friend. They both remained quite still for a time, listening to the rattling of the windows and the long-drawn moan that kept filling the chimney and then dying away again.