The first thing he saw when he opened the door of the room at the top of
the house was the fire.
A fire. He hadn't ordered a fire. He must look into that. That officious
slattern Lizzie----
Then, before he had recovered from this, he had another shock. Lucy was
on the hearthrug, her head leaning against the sofa, sound asleep.
So that's what she had been doing,--just going comfortably to sleep,
while he----
He shut the door and walked over to the fireplace and stood with his
back to it looking down at her. Even his heavy tread didn't wake her. He
had shut the door in the way that was natural, and had walked across the
room in the way that was natural, for he felt no impulse in the presence
of sleep to go softly. Besides, why should she sleep in broad daylight?
Wemyss was of opinion that the night was for that. No wonder she
couldn't sleep at night if she did it in the daytime. There she was,
sleeping soundly, completely indifferent to what he might be doing.
Would a really loving woman be able to do that? Would a really devoted
wife?
Then he noticed that her face, the side of it he could see, was much
swollen, and her nose was red. At least, he thought, she had had some
contrition for what she had done before going to sleep. It was to be
hoped she would wake up in a proper frame of mind. If so, even now some
of the birthday might be saved.
He took out his pipe and filled it slowly, his eyes wandering constantly
to the figure on the floor. Fancy that thing having the power to make or
mar his happiness. He could pick that much up with one hand. It looked
like twelve, with its long-stockinged relaxed legs, and its round,
short-haired head, and its swollen face of a child in a scrape. Make or
mar. He lit his pipe, repeating the phrase to himself, struck by it,
struck by the way it illuminated his position of bondage to love.
All his life, he reflected, he had only asked to be allowed to lavish
love, to make a wife happy. Look how he had loved Vera: with the utmost
devotion till she had killed it, and nothing but trouble as a reward.
Look how he loved that little thing on the floor. Passionately. And in
return, the first thing she did on being brought into his home as his
bride was to quarrel and ruin his birthday. She knew how keenly he had
looked forward to his birthday, she knew how the arrangements of the
whole honeymoon, how the very date of the wedding, had hinged on this
one day; yet she had deliberately ruined it. And having ruined it, what
did she care? Comes up here, if you please, and gets a book and goes
comfortably to sleep over it in front of the fire.
His mouth hardened still more. He pulled the arm-chair up and sat down
noisily in it, his eyes cold with resentment.
The book Lucy had been reading had dropped out of her hand when she fell
asleep, and lay open on the floor at his feet. If she used books in such
a way, Wemyss thought, he would be very careful how he let her have the
key of his bookcase. This was one of Vera's,--Vera hadn't taken any care
of her books either; she was always reading them. He slanted his head
sideways to see the title, to see what it was Lucy had considered more
worth her attention than her conduct that day towards her husband.
_Wuthering Heights_. He hadn't read it, but he fancied he had heard of
it as a morbid story. She might have been better employed, on their
first day at home, than in shutting herself away from him reading a
morbid story.
It was while he was looking at her with these thoughts stonily in his
eyes that Lucy, wakened by the smell of his pipe, opened hers. She
saw Everard sitting close to her, and had one of those moments
of instinctive happiness, of complete restoration to unshadowed
contentment, which sometimes follow immediately on waking up, before
there has been time to remember. It seems for a wonderful instant as
though all in the world were well. Doubts have vanished. Pain is gone.
And sometimes the moment continues even beyond remembrance.
It did so now with Lucy. When she opened her eyes and saw Everard, she
smiled at him a smile of perfect confidence. She had forgotten
everything. She woke up after a deep sleep and saw him, her dear love,
sitting beside her. How natural to be happy. Then, the expression on his
face bringing back remembrance, it seemed to her in that first serene
sanity, that clear-visioned moment of spirit unfretted by body, that
they had been extraordinarily silly, taking everything the other one
said and did with a tragicness....
Only love filled Lucy after the deep, restoring sleep. 'Dearest one,'
she murmured drowsily, smiling at him, without changing her position.
He said nothing to that; and presently, having woken up more, she got on
to her knees and pulled herself across to him and curled up at his feet,
her head against his knee.
He still said nothing. He waited. He would give her time. Her words had
been familiar, but not penitent. They had hardly been the right
beginning for an expression of contrition; but he would see what she
said next.
What she said next was, 'Haven't we been silly,'--and, more familiarity,
she put one arm round his knees and held them close against her face.
'We?' said Wemyss. 'Did you say we?'
'Yes,' said Lucy, her cheek against his knee. 'We've been wasting time.'
Wemyss paused before he made his comment on this. 'Really,' he then
said, 'the way you include me shows very little appreciation of your
conduct.'
'Well, _I've_ been silly then,' she said, lifting her head and smiling
up at him.
She simply couldn't go on with indignations. Perhaps they were just
ones. It didn't matter if they were. Who wanted to be in the right in a
dispute with one's lover? Everybody, oh, but everybody who loved, would
passionately want always to have been in the wrong, never, never to have
been right. That one's beloved should have been unkind,--who wanted that
to be true? Who wouldn't do anything sooner than have not been mistaken
about it? Vividly she saw Everard as he was before their marriage; so
dear, so boyish, such fun, her playmate. She could say anything to him
then. She had been quite fearless. And vividly, too, she saw him as he
was when first they met, both crushed by death,--how he had comforted
her, how he had been everything that was wonderful and tender. All that
had happened since, all that had happened on this particular and most
unfortunate day, was only a sort of excess of boyishness: boyishness on
its uncontrolled side, a wave, a fit of bad temper provoked by her not
having held on to her impulses. That locking her out in the rain,--a
schoolboy might have done that to another schoolboy. It meant nothing,
except that he was angry. That about sexual allure----oh, well.
'I've been very silly,' she said earnestly.
He looked down at her in silence. He wanted more than that. That wasn't
nearly enough. He wanted much more of humbleness before he could bring
himself to lift her on to his knee, forgiven. And how much he wanted her
on his knee.
'Do you realise what you've done?' he asked.
'Yes,' said Lucy. 'And I'm so sorry. Won't we kiss and be friends?'
'Not yet, thank you. I must be sure first that you understand how
deliberately wicked you've been.'
'Oh, but I haven't been deliberately wicked!' exclaimed Lucy, opening
her eyes wide with astonishment. 'Everard, how can you say such a
thing?'
'Ah, I see. You are still quite impenitent, and I am sorry I came up.'
He undid her arm from round his knees, put her on one side, and got out
of the chair. Rage swept over him again.
'Here I've been sitting watching you like a dog,' he said, towering over
her, 'like a faithful dog while you slept, waiting patiently till you
woke up and only wanting to forgive you, and you not only callously
sleep after having behaved outrageously and allowed yourself to exhibit
temper before the whole house on our very first day together in my
home--well knowing, mind you, what day it is--but when I ask you for
some sign, some word, some assurance that you are ashamed of yourself
and will not repeat your conduct, you merely deny that you have done
anything needing forgiveness.'
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, his face twitching with anger, and
wished to God he could knock the opposition out of Lucy as easily.
She, on the floor, sat looking up at him, her mouth open. What could she
do with Everard? She didn't know. Love had no effect; saying she was
sorry had no effect.
She pushed her hair nervously behind her ears with both hands. 'I'm sick
of quarrels,' she said.
'So am I,' said Wemyss, going towards the door thrusting his pipe into
his pocket. 'You've only got yourself to thank for them.'