‘I will not think of him,’ she thought, ‘I will not think of him!’ As a child that refuses to remember what has hurt it, so would she be! And, instantly, his face formed in the darkness – his eyes and his lips. She turned round to the trunk and leaned her forehead on its roughness. But his face came between. Recoiling, she walked away over the grass swiftly and without noise, invisible as a spirit. Up and down she walked, and the wheeling soothed her.
‘Well,’ she thought, ‘I have had my hour. It can’t be helped. I must go in.’
She stood for a moment looking up at the stars, so far, so many, bright and cold. And with a faint smile she thought:
‘I wonder which is my lucky star!’
OVER THE RIVER
TO
Rudolf and Viola Sauter
Chapter One
CLARE, who for seventeen months had been the wife of Sir Gerald Corven of the Colonial Service, stood on the boat deck of an Orient liner in the river Thames, waiting for it to dock. It was ten o’clock of a mild day in October, but she wore a thick tweed coat, for the voyage had been hot. She looked pale – indeed, a little sallow – but her clear brown eyes were fixed eagerly on the land and her slightly touched-up lips were parted, so that her face had the vividness to which it was accustomed. She stood alone, until a voice said:
‘Oh! here you are!’ and a young man, appearing from behind a boat, stood beside her. Without turning, she said:
‘Absolutely perfect day! It ought to be lovely at home.’
‘I thought you’d be staying in Town for a night at least; and we could have had a dinner and theatre. Won’t you?’
‘My dear young man, I shall be met.’
‘Perfectly damnable, things coming to an end!’
‘Often more damnable, things beginning.’
He gave her a long look, and said suddenly:
‘Clare, you realize, of course, that I love you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t love me?’
‘Wholly without prejudice.’
‘I wish – I wish you could catch fire for a moment.’
‘I am a respectable married woman, Tony.’
‘Coming back to England because –’
‘Of the climate of Ceylon.’
He kicked at the rail. ‘Just as it’s getting perfect. I’ve not said anything, but I know that your – that Corven –’
Clare lifted her eyebrows, and he was silent; then both looked at the shore, becoming momentarily more and more a consideration.
When two young people have been nearly three weeks together on board a ship, they do not know each other half so well as they think they do. In the abiding inanity of a life when everything has stopped except the engines, the water slipping along the ship’s sides, and the curving of the sun in the sky, their daily chair-to-chair intimacy gathers a queer momentum and a sort of lazy warmth. They know that they are getting talked about, and do not care. After all, they cannot get off the ship, and there is nothing else to do. They dance together, and the sway of the ship, however slight, favours the closeness of their contacts. After ten days or so they settle down to a life together, more continuous than that of marriage, except that they still spend their nights apart. And then, all of a sudden, the ship stops, and they stop, and there is a feeling, at least on one side, perhaps on both, that stocktaking has been left till too late. A hurried vexed excitement, not unpleasurable, because suspended animation is at an end, invades their faculties; they are faced with the real equation of land animals who have been at sea.
Clare broke the silence.
‘You’ve never told me why you’re called Tony when your name is James.’
‘That is why. I wish you’d be serious, Clare; we haven’t much time before the darned ship docks. I simply can’t bear the thought of not seeing you every day.’
Clare gave him a swift look, and withdrew her eyes to the shore again. ‘How clean!’ she was thinking. He had, indeed, a clean oval-shaped brown face, determined, but liable to good humour, with dark grey eyes inclined to narrow with his thoughts and darkish hair; and he was thin and active.
He took hold of a button of her coat.
‘You haven’t said a word about yourself out there, but you aren’t happy, I know.’
‘I dislike people who talk about their private lives.’
‘Look!’ he put a card into her hand: ‘That club always finds me.’
She read:
MR JAMES BERNARD CROOM
The Coffee House,
St James’ Street.
‘Isn’t the Coffee House very out of date?’
‘Yes, but it’s still rather “the thing.” My Dad put me down when I was born.’