She tossed it from her.
“Don’t be silly, Jenny! What was it? _Who_ was it?” Her eyes were
horribly intelligent.
“He slipped. He fell. He was shutting the door.” I felt I could go on
saying that for ever and ever.
The red patches in her cheeks deepened. She spoke past me, rudely,
furiously—
“I intend to know. I’ve a perfect right——Kent, I intend to know.”
I put out my arms carelessly, though my heart was thudding, and rested
them against the doorposts.
“He’s shaken—a heavy man like that. Better leave him alone.”
“I intend to know,” she insisted. And then—“Jenny! _Jenny!_ Let me
pass.”
“No!” I said.
For a second we stood opposed, and in that second I realized literally
for the first time (so dominating had her personality been) that she was
shorter than I. She was dwindling before my eyes. I found myself looking
down at her with almost brutal composure. That I had ever been afraid of
her was the marvel! For I was young, and she was elderly. I was strong,
and she was weak. Her bare arms were like sticks, but mine were round
and supple, and I could feel the blood tingle in them as my grip
tightened on the woodwork. She was only Anita Serle, the well-known
writer; but I was Jenny Summer, and Kent was needing me.
“Jenny—you will be sorry!” Her eyes and her voice were one threat. Such
eyes! Eyes whose pupils had dilated till the irids were mere threads
that encircled jealousy itself—jealousy black and bitter—jealousy that
had stolen upon us as the fog had done, obscuring, soiling, stifling
friend and enemy alike—jealousy of a gift and a great name, of a dead
woman and a living man and their year of happiness—jealousy beyond
reason, beyond pity—jealousy insatiable, already seeking out fresh food,
turning deliberately, vengefully, upon Kent and upon me.
I felt sick. I had never dreamed that there could be such feelings in
the world. And now she was going to Kent, to probe and lacerate and
poison—
“No!” I said.
Actually she believed that she could pass me!
I still held fast by the door-posts, and she did not use her hands. We
were silent and decorous, but for an instant our bodies fought. She was
pressed against me, panting—
“_No!_” I said.
Then she fell away, and without another word turned and went back into
the other room.
I saw Miss Howe whisper some question. There was an instant’s silence.
Then her answer came—
“Much better leave him alone. Yes—rather shaken—a heavy man like that.”
It was defeat. She was using my very words, because, for all her
fluency, she had none with which to cover it.
I was sorry. I felt a brute. But what else could I have done? I stood a
moment watching her recover herself. Then I went back to Kent.
He did not look up, but he moved a little to give me room. I sat down
beside him. We were shut away between the wall and the window, in the
shadow, out of sight of the others. It was very peaceful. Now and then I
looked at Kent, but he was staring before him. He had forgotten all
about me again, I knew. But I was content. It made me happy to be
sitting by him. My thoughts hopped about like birds after crumbs. I
remember wondering what I should do on the morrow—where I should go?
That Anita would have me in the house another twenty-four hours was not
likely. I had ten pounds. I did not care. I knew that I ought to be
anxious, but I could not realize the need. I could not think of anything
but him; yet I was afraid to speak to him. He sat so still. His face was
set in schooled and heavy lines. There came a stir and a clash of voices
from the other room, but he did not seem to hear it. It was only the end
of a poem. In a little it had settled down again into the same
monotonous hum, but for a moment I had thought that it was the break-up,
and after that I had no peace. It had scared me. It made me realize that
I had only a few minutes—half an hour at most—and that then he would be
going away—and when should I see him again? Never—maybe never! He had
his life all arranged. He didn’t even know my name. I felt desperate. I
couldn’t let him go. I didn’t know what to do. I only knew that—that I
couldn’t bear it if he went away from me.
It was then that he moved and straightened himself in his chair with a
sigh, that heavy, long-drawn sigh that men give when they make an end.
‘Work or play, joy or grief, it’s done with. And now——?’ Such a sigh as
you never hear from women. But then we are not wise at ending things.
I thought that he was getting up, that he was going then and there, and
instinctively I hurried into speech, daring anything—everything—his own
thoughts of me—rather than let him go.
“Yes—that’s over!” I translated softly.
He turned with such a stare that I could have smiled.
“I meant that. How did you know?”
“Why shouldn’t I know?” I did smile then. It made him smile back at me,
but doubtfully, unwillingly.
“Can you read thoughts—too?” The last word seemed to come out in spite
of himself.
“Not always. Yours I can.” My face was burning. But I could have spared
myself the shame that made it burn, for he did not understand. My voice
said nothing to him. My face showed him nothing. He was thinking about
himself. But he leant forward in that way he has—a dear way—of liking to
talk to you.
“Can you? I never can. Only when I paint. I can put them into paint, of
course. But not words. _She_ said——” and all through the subsequent talk
he avoided the name—“she said it was laziness, a lazy mind. But I always
told her that that was her fault. I—we—her people—were just wool: she
knitted us into our patterns. She was a wonder. You know, she—she was
good for one. She was like bread—bread and wine——” His voice strained
and flagged.