‘Good night, old thing! Rub noses.’
Withdrawing from the night, Dinny clasped that slim pyjamaed body. Their cheeks touched, and to each the warmth of the other’s skin was moving – to Clare a blessing, to Dinny an infection, as though the lingered glow from many kisses was passing into her.
When her sister had gone, she moved restlessly up and down her dark room.
‘It doesn’t do to make people wretched!… Women ought to be loved.… Men, too.’ Quite a minor prophet! Converted by lightning, like Paul on his way to wherever it was. Up and down, up and down, till at last, quite tired, she turned on the light, threw off her clothes, and sat down in a wrapper to brush her hair. Brushing away at it, she stared at her image in the glass with fascination, as if she had not seen herself for a long time. The fever with which she had been infected seemed still in her cheeks and eyes and hair, she looked unnaturally vivid to herself; or was it that the sun, while she and Dornford were sitting in that punt, had left her with this hot feeling in the veins? She finished brushing, shook back her hair, and got into bed. She had left the casements open, the curtains undrawn; and the starry night confronted her lying on her back in the darkness of her narrow room. The hall clock struck midnight faintly – only three hours or so before it would be light! She thought of Clare sunk in beauty sleep close by. She thought of Tony Croom, deep-drugged with happiness, in his converted cottages, and the old tag from The Beggars’ Opera ran in her mind: ‘With bliss her kisses dissolve us in pleasure and soft repose.’ But she! She could not sleep! She felt, as sometimes when a little girl, that she must roam about, explore the strangeness of the dead of night, sit on the stairs, peep into rooms, curl up in some armchair. And, getting up, she put on her dressing-gown and slippers and stole out. She sat on the top stair, clasping her knees and listening. Not a sound in the old dark house, except a little scraping noise, where some mouse was at work. She rose, clutched the banister, and crept downstairs. The hall smelled musty already, too much old wood and furniture to stand enclosure by the night. She groped across to the drawing-room door and opened it. Here flowers and last year’s pot-pourri and stale cigarette smoke scented the air with a heavy reek. She made her way to one of the French windows, drew the curtains back, and opened it. She stood there a minute taking deep breaths. Very dark, very still, very warm. By starlight she could just see the sheen on the magnolia leaves. Leaving the window open, she sought her favourite old armchair, and curled up in it with her feet tucked under her. There, hugging herself, she tried to recapture the feeling that she was a child again. The night air came in, the clock ticked, and the hot feeling in her veins seemed to cool away in measure with its rhythm. She shut her eyes fast, and the sort of cosiness she used to feel in that old chair, as if she were all clasped and protected, stole upon her; but still she did not sleep. Behind her from the window with the rising of the moon a presence had stolen in, a sort of fingering uncanny light, slowly lifting each familiar object into ghostly semblance of itself. It was as if the room had come awake to keep her company; and the feeling she had sometimes had, that the old house had a life of its own, felt, saw, knew its spells of wakefulness and of slumber, tingled once more within her. Suddenly, she heard footsteps on the terrace and sat up startled.
Someone said: ‘Who is that! Is anyone there?’
A figure stood in the open window; by the voice she knew that it was Dornford, and said:
‘Only me.’
‘Only you!’
She saw him come in and stand beside the chair, looking down. He was still in his evening clothes, and, with his back to the faint light, she could hardly see his face at all.
‘Anything the matter, Dinny?’
‘Just couldn’t sleep. And you?’
‘I’ve been finishing a bit of work in the library. I went out on the terrace for a breath, and saw this window open.’
‘Which of us is going to say: “How marvellous”?’
Neither of them said anything. But Dinny unclasped herself and let her feet seek the ground.
Suddenly, Dornford put his hands to his head and turned his back on her.
‘Forgive my being like this,’ she murmured, ‘I naturally didn’t expect –’
He turned round again, and dropped on his knees besides her. ‘Dinny, it’s the end of the world unless –’
She put her hands on his hair and said quietly: ‘– it’s the Beginning.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
ADRIAN sat writing to his wife.
Condaford: August 10.
MY VERY DEAR, –