Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Earlier in the evening he had consoled himself with the thought that perhaps she would not come. She would realize that he ought not to have spoken, and she would know that he would have realized this too, and she would simply not come. After all, the meaning of his five days of silence could not have escaped her. He saw himself so clearly as contemptible: a middle-aged man deceiving his wife, inefficient, blundering, and graceless. Surely she would not come. Now, however, although Mor had no expectation of joy from her coming, he was in an agony lest she should not come. He looked at his watch for the hundredth time. It was twenty minutes past nine. It was now almost totally dark outside.

There was a sound upon the path. She had come through the gate without his seeing her and had reached the front door. From the darkened window Mor watched her tensely. She stood on the step. She was wearing a mackintosh, in the pockets of which she fumbled for a moment. Then she drew out a letter, slipped it noiselessly through the letter-box, and turned and walked quickly away down the path.

Mor did not hesitate for a second. He sped out of the room and through the hall. He did not stop to pick up the letter. He swung the door open and left it wide behind him. He covered the garden path in three bounds. He saw the small figure some way down the road, running now. Mor shot after her. The pain in his heart turned into a fierce delight. He came up with her just at the corner of the road and caught her by the wrist. It was like catching a thief. He said nothing, but turned her about and began to pull her back towards his house. She scarcely resisted him. Together they ran back down the road, Mor still gripping her arm in a tight grip. As they ran it began to rain. They went in through the front door like a pair of birds. Mor closed it behind them.

In the darkness of the hall he turned towards her. They were both breathless from the running.

‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘Rain.’ It did him good to utter her name. He picked up the letter from the floor. ‘You brought a letter to say that you had decided not to come.’

‘Yes,’ said Rain. She was leaning back against the wall.

‘Why did you do that?’ said Mor gently, and did not wait for an answer. He suddenly felt calm. ‘Take your coat off.’

She took it off and he hung it on a peg. She still stood there by the wall. Mor came to her and picked her up in his arms. She was exceedingly light. He carried her into the drawing-room, slammed the door behind him with his foot, and laid her down gently on the sofa. Then he drew the curtains and lighted one of the lamps.

‘May I read your letter?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said Rain. She was not looking at him.

Mor opened the letter. It read:

I am sorry. I ought not to have asked you to dine or said yes to your invitation. No more need be said. Please pardon my part in all this.

He put the letter away in his pocket. Thoughtfully he took out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Rain, which she took, and selected one himself. Mor now felt amazingly and unexpectedly at his ease. He was in a terrible fix. He had behaved wrongly and he had involved another person in his wrong behaviour. All this would have to be sorted out. But just at this very moment there was an oasis of calm. He had caught her, he had brought her back, she lay there before him, she was not going away at once, he would not let her. Then deep within he felt again the joy which he had felt in the first day when he had looked at the flaky wood of the station gate. He loved her.

Mor turned and looked at Rain. She was looking at him. He knew that there must be a sort of triumph in his face. He let her read it there. She began shaking her head. ‘Mor,’ she said, ‘this is wrong.’

‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘did you want to come?’

‘Of course I wanted to come,’ she said. ‘I wanted very very much to come. But I oughtn’t to have done. If I’d really willed not to come, if I’d felt clearly enough how bad it was, I wouldn’t have run the risk of delivering the letter-I would simply not have appeared. But I couldn’t bear the thought of your waiting and waiting.’

‘You wanted to come!’ said Mor. He could hardly believe it. ‘Will you have some brandy or some white wine?’ he said. What he wanted now was a moment of quiet.

‘I’ll have brandy,’ said Rain. She sat up on the sofa, running her hands nervously through her dark hair. It ruffled jaggedly around her face. The rain was coming down fast now. Its drumming increased in an alarming crescendo. Then there was a flash and a deafening crack of thunder. They remained immobile looking at each other.

‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I think I’ll have some brandy too. I feel a bit shaken after all this.’ The air was growing perceptibly cooler. The drumming continued. Mor turned on an electric fire.

He came and knelt on the floor beside the sofa. ‘Dear darling,’ he said. He looked upon her with amazement, with incredulity. ‘How is it,’ he said, ‘that you could possibly have wanted to come. That amazes me. How could you want to see me ?’ He touched her hair.

Rain took the glass from his hand and laid it upon the floor. Then she threw both arms about his neck and drew him down until his head lay upon her breast. She held him close, caressing his hair. Mor lay still. A deep peace and joy was in him. He could have died thus. For a long time they lay quiet. The thunder rumbled overhead and the rain came down steadily.

At last Mor lifted his head and began to kiss her. She returned his kisses with an equal fierceness, her hands locked behind his neck, drawing his head back towards her. When they were sated with kissing, they lay, their faces very close, regarding each other.

‘When did you begin,’ said Rain, ‘to feel like this?’

Mor considered. ‘I think the very beginning,’ he said, ‘was when you took my hand on the steps leading up to the rose garden. Do you remember? The very first evening we met. I was so terribly moved that you took my hand. But I didn’t realize properly that I was in love till the day when I found you in the wood, when the boys were drawing you. Oh, Rain, I looked for you so hard that day, it was agony.’

She stroked his face, her eyes burning with tenderness. ‘That was a marvel,’ she said. ‘You came and released me from a spell.’

‘When did you first,’ said Mor — he could not find the words - ‘notice me at all?’

‘Dear Mor,’ said Rain, laughing at him, ‘I think it was when I was drawing you at Demoyte’s house that it first occurred to me that perhaps I was - falling in love.’

It stunned Mor to hear her utter these words. He looked at her open-mouthed. ‘This is all beyond me!’ he said.

Rain laughed again, a deep loose joyful laugh that was close to tears. ‘That was why I went to bed early,’ she said, ‘and why I wouldn’t show you the sketch. I thought you would certainly be able to read in it what I was beginning to feel.’

‘Will you give me the sketch?’ said Mor.

‘I want to keep it!’ she said, ‘but I’ll let you see it.’

‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘it was such torment these last few days. I wanted to see you so much.’ He realized as he spoke that the torment had only not been unendurable because he had suspected in his heart that he would see her again.

‘I know,’ said Rain, ‘I too - I’ve thought of nothing else. I knew I oughtn’t to go to that cricket match. I stayed away all the morning and the beginning of the afternoon. But then I couldn’t bear it, I had to come.’

Mor felt, it is fate, it is not our will. We have both struggled against it. But it has been too strong. As he thought this, he answered himself. No, it is our will. And with this came a great sense of vigour and power. He took her triumphantly in his arms.