It was one o’clock when the merry party separated, and still no Eileen.
A light rain was falling, and the coat closet must be searched for
umbrellas. Lary lingered at Judith Ascott’s door, unwilling to say good
night. Some misshapen apprehension that had tormented him all evening
struggled for expression.
“Do you believe, Judith, that whatever is, is right?”
“I can recall the time, less than six months ago, when I was convinced
that whatever is--is wrong,” she answered, mystified.
“And now?” He searched her face, there in the moist dusk of the
veranda. When he spoke again, it was with something of Theo’s kindling
animation: “I don’t know what you have done to me. A moment ago I was
facing a great onrushing wall of black water. And all at once it has
broken into ripples of silver joy. Last night I watched a great black
and yellow spider, playing with his web in the moonlight. He was such
a handsome, capable fellow--and the moth was so blunderingly stupid.
I wondered if there were not something to be said in favour of the
spider. But--you will think me a fatalist, if I finish the thought I
had in mind. You will believe me when I tell you that I am not, in the
least?”
“No, Lary, I will not believe you--one whit more than I can believe
that it was an empty accident that brought me to Springdale--to Vine
Cottage--four months ago. You and Eileen and I are caught in the web.
The spider is Fate. I begged the gods to burn my fingers with the fire
of life ... and they heard my prayer....”
“You delicious pagan! I might fancy gentle Clotho spinning a silken
strand for you. But to sear your fingers--” He caught them and pressed
them to his lips. Then he hurried across the lawn in a panic, his bare
head wet with the summer rain. Judith looked after him, Sylvia’s best
umbrella in her hand. She wanted to call him back, but it would only
mean a double wetting. And Sylvia need not know.
She went up to her room but not to sleep. Taking down the thick coils
of her pale chestnut hair, she braided it deliberately. A strand, blown
across her face by the breeze from the west window, reminded her, all
at once, of the web. She relaxed weakly on a hassock, watching the
glittering drops on the edge of the awning that shaded her window from
the afternoon sun. Was the web inevitable ... Fate? As yet she was
free. Could she view with equanimity a future that involved, not Lary
and his two young sisters, but those others who were of his flesh?
Could she bear the heartache that was David Trench? Could she.... Her
head drooped low on the window sill and her mind drifted rudderless on
a sea of dreams.