Phyllis could feel the whole flat of visible world gently tilting.
Equilibrium, if there had been any, was gone: they had begun to slide.
George, receding across the level grass, seemed to descend a downward
slope. Martin was lying at ease on the ground beside her, with one
knee bent and the other leg cocked across it. Perhaps that’s why he’s
so fond of lying on the ground. It’s easier to keep from sliding. He
seemed to have forgotten she was there and was humming to himself.
She felt he had the advantage that silent people always have over the
talkative. But if she could get him into conversation, she could make
him realize that she was more thoughtful than she seemed.
“I’m glad you didn’t finish your beans,” she began.
He did not seem surprised. “I’m glad you’re glad,” he said presently.
“I don’t like finishing things either.”
To this he said nothing at all, and she realized that her carefully
drilled waggishness, which she kept for callers, would descend upon
her in a minute. She struggled against it. She had a forlorn desire to
feel real for a few moments, to say things she believed. But of its own
accord an archly playful remark popped out.
“Now you mustn’t let us bore you, you must feel free to do whatever you
want. I think it’s dreadful to force guests to be amused.”
“I feel awfully free. Don’t you?”
This was so unexpected that her mind went quite blank. There seemed no
possible reply that was worth making.
“I should like to lie in bed and laugh,” he said calmly.
Phyllis tried to think of something to laugh about. It suddenly struck
her that there are days when one does not laugh at all. Evidently this
was one of them. The world had swinked, and looped its wild orbit for
uncountable ages, all to produce this latest moment of lucid afternoon:
and yet what cause was there for mirth? But she felt that if she
could produce a clear chime of amusement it would be a mannerly and
attractive thing to do. She opened her mouth for it, but only managed a
sort of satiric cackle.
“You mustn’t _try_ to laugh,” he said. “It’s bad for you.”
She wondered whether she ought to pretend offence. Of course I’m not
really offended: there’s something so gently impersonal about his
rudenesses. In this dreadful vortex of life that seems to spin us
round and round, how amazing to find someone so completely nonchalant,
so ... so untouched by anxiety ... as though his mind had never been
_bruised_. (When she found the right word she always liked to think of
it as underlined.)
She had often wondered, hopefully, if she would ever be tempted beyond
her strength. Absurd: this was the sort of thing that simply didn’t
happen to ... to nice people. But there was a warm currency in her
blood, radiant and quivering. She ought to go indoors and lie down
... lie on her bed and laugh ... but feeling her knees tremble she
remembered that the underskirt was very sheer, and in that violent
sunlight, walking across the lawn, he would see an ungraceful bifid
silhouette ... you can’t really shock women, but you have to be so
careful not to startle men ... without seeming to pay special attention
he was evidently terribly observant.... What was it George had said
once? that she was so beautiful his eye always enjoyed imagining the
lines of her ... her.... No, _body_ is a horrid word ... her figure
... under her thin dress. George was so carnal. And worse than that,
apologetic for it. Mr. Martin isn’t carnal ... and if he were, he
wouldn’t deprecate it.
“All the things I like are bad for me.”
She had said this almost unconsciously, for her mind had gone a long
way ahead. She was thinking that if George drove recklessly through a
thunderstorm, and the car skidded, and he ... died ... passed away ...
on the way to the hospital at Dark Harbour (because the most appalling
things do happen sometimes: why, once a flake of burning tobacco blew
from George’s pipe into his eye, as he was turning a corner, and the
car almost went into the ditch) ... what on earth would she do? Wire to
New York for mourning, and would it be proper to keep Mr. Martin in the
house after the funeral? The little churchyard on the dunes would be
such a picturesque place to bury a husband: sandy soil, too (it seems
so much cleaner, somehow) and harebells among the stones. What was that
kind of lettering George was always talking about? Yes, Caslon: he
would like that--
GEORGE GRANVILLE
IN THE 39TH YEAR OF HIS AGE
Certainly it would never do to have him there after the interment (Mr.
Martin, that is). It would have to be at two o’clock so he could get
the 3:18 train. Two o’clock makes it rather early, it would interrupt
George’s nap after lunch....
But Mr. Martin was sitting up looking at her with interest.
“Really?” he was asking. “You feel that way too?”
She had forgotten what she had said; and she couldn’t very well say
“_What_ way?” She must have said something rather good, because he was
gazing at her with lively expectancy. His inquisitive eyes, eager brown
face, were utterly charming. How fascinating human beings are, she
thought: their nice fabricky clothes, their queerly carved faces. She
wanted to stretch beside him on the shiny needles, let the sun bake and
cook away this horrible curdling sickness that shook inside her; purify
all her idiocy in the warm clear pleasure of exchanging ideas. Why even
animals can communicate their sensations more cordially than people.
Must this fardel of identity always be borne alone?
“Yes,” she said, with her perfected smile. She wanted to put her hand
on his shoulder, to know if he was actual. When the whole fire and
anger of a woman’s life reaches out for some imagined fulfillment, she
finds no luxury of phrase to say her pang. She is a movement of nature,
a wind that stirs the grass, a moth blundering in the rain. I shall
tell him in a minute, I shall tell him, God help me not to tell him.
Is this being tempted beyond my strength? But this isn’t temptation,
this is just Truth. This was God Himself. Weren’t we told to love God?
Perhaps George would say that biology was just making fun of her.
You’re not supposed to love more than one person at a time--not in the
same way, at least....
“Even Picnics?”
“Don’t speak of the Picnic,” she said. “I hate to think of it. Damn the
Picnic.”
He looked startled.
“George made up a limerick once,” she said. “It began like this: _I
never believed in monogamy, My husband has just made a dog o’ me._ But
he couldn’t find another rhyme.”
“What’s monogamy?”
“Something terrible,” she said, laughing. This was the real laughter
she had hoped for. She seemed lifted, purged, held in a twinkling skein
of mirth. Laughter, like flame, purifies. Certainly he was adorable,
but she couldn’t quite make him out. Why should he, who evidently
enjoyed horrifying others, be so suddenly aghast himself? Plainly he
was making fun of her: but she could see he was the kind of person who
would not try, clumsily, to say the things that ought never to be said.
For every woman knows all these things anyway, and prefers to say them
herself.
There was a clatter on the veranda, three serial slams of the screen
door, quick crunching of gravel, the children. How she loved them, the
gay flutter of their short dresses, the brown slender legs gradually
paling toward their soft fat little hams. They came running across the
lawn, knees lifting and shining in the brilliant light. They surrounded
her in a hot laughing group, breathlessly explaining some plan. Daddy
was going to take them swimming, if there was a storm they could go
into the bath house, it wouldn’t matter anyway if they had their
bathing suits on, Daddy would play Moby Dick the White Whale. The words
came tumbling out of them, they seemed packed with words, bursting with
a vision of green warm water scalloped with foam, Daddy the White Whale
snorting in the surf, the prickling terror of storm darkening the sky.
What vitality, what career of the spirit of life!
“Children, children, don’t forget your manners. Make a nice curtsey to
Mr. Martin.”
At once they became well-regulated little dolls. What a picture, she
thought: The Curtsey ... the three children bobbing, their mother
in the background, supervising as it were: seeing that Life kept
within bounds, did no violence to the harmony of the composition.
Because (heavens!) it was bad enough for _her_ to feel as she did: she
couldn’t endure the thought of Janet and Sylvia and Rose growing up to
such--such disorders. If they were painted like that, curtseying, of
course the pose would be difficult to hold. But all poses are difficult
to hold.
“I don’t know that I like the idea of your bathing with a storm coming
on,” she said. That was George, putting wild schemes in their heads. If
she forbade it now, there would be tears----
“It’s what we’re all doing, all the time,” said George. He had come
quietly across the grass while she was showing the children off to
Martin.
This was so surprisingly subtle, for George, she scanned him in
amazement. He looked like An Anchor to Windward, A Stitch in Time,
Something Put By for a Rainy Day. No one ever looked less like a Leap
in the Dark. In short, he looked like a Husband: large, strong,
reliable, long-suffering, and uninteresting. The best way to look,
probably (she thought), for the interesting people have such a painful
time.
“It was a telegram from Miss Clyde,” he said. “She’s coming this
afternoon. Same train as the Brooks.”
“This afternoon! I thought it was to-morrow.”
There was something guilty about George’s shrug. He must have told her
to come to-day.
“Well, then, George. You’ll have to clean up your den right away. And
the Brooks are going into the children’s room, that bed has got to be
fixed. It’s all right for Janet, but that spring’ll have to be fixed
before Ben and Ruth sleep there.”
The children’s faces were troubled.
“It’s all right, little toads,” said George. “You go and get your swim
anyhow. Mr. Martin can go with you and be the White Whale. I’ll come
down as soon as I’ve fixed the beds.”
“I haven’t any suit,” said Martin.
“All the more like the White Whale,” said George. “But you can take
mine, it’s in the bath house.”
The children, gaily chattering, led Martin off. Phyllis watched them
along the hot pebbly path. Beyond the sundial it curved through
shrubbery to the green wicket gate. Here, up a grassy gully, came the
sharp breath of the sea. In a sort of daze her eyes went with them.
That little valley, between the tall dunes, was like a channel through
which, if the level garden tilted ever so little, all life would sluice
out. When the gate opened it would be like pulling the plug in a
bathtub. Everything would begin to flow. With a horrid gurgling sound,
probably.
George was beneficently silent. Dreamily she found herself following
Martin and the children. If she got as far as that tuft of grass
without George speaking, she would not need to answer. She was almost
there. She was there. She put her foot squarely on it. Then to her
surprise she turned and waited. George was filling his pipe. His
silence could only mean one thing: he was frightened about something.
She felt her advantage come swimming back into her, a thrilling flutter
of strength. Yet she was angry at him for not trying to hold and subdue
her.
“Well, why don’t you say something?”
He blazed with delighted peevishness.
“At least tell me which bed is which?” he shouted.
“Both of them,” she said.
Now the others were hidden behind the shrubbery. In a minute they’d
be through the gate. She drifted swiftly after. There was the place
on the gravel where she had found him lying. The pebbles were still
scuffed about. But even if the gardener raked the path a thousand
times she would never forget that exact spot. They were at the gate.
The children were showing him how fine it is for swinging on. All was
clear in her mind. She would tell the girls to run ahead, and as they
twinkled down the slope she would turn to Martin. Her eyes would tell
him everything.... No, not everything; but enough to begin with.
Then, _I love you_, she would say. Softly. She whispered it to herself
to be sure she had the right intonation. How long was it since she had
said that as it should be said, with amazement and terror? Ten years?
Why, a woman ought to be able to say it like that--well, every other
year anyhow.
“Don’t swing on that gate more than one at a time,” she called. “You’ll
break the hinges.” And added, to justify herself in Martin’s ears,
“Remember, chickens, it’s not _our_ gate.”
They turned, surprised to see her following.
“Children,” she began, “you run ahead, I want----”
The alert, attentive faces of the little girls were too much for her.
They gaped over the palings. They knew (she felt sure) that something
queer was happening. They always know, as calmly detached as nurses in
a hospital who smile faintly at what the patients say under ether.
She hesitated, looking down at her ankles. How trim and orderly they
were; when she put on those white silk stockings this morning she had
had no idea of all this happening.
She heard the gate clash to, but still paused, her face averted. She
wanted her eyes to reach his slowly. For after that it would be too
late to plan things. There was a lonely marching in her blood. Then,
trembling, she looked.
He wasn’t there. He too had run on with the children. All four, far
down the hill, romping to the beach together.