Out Of The Past by Patricia Wentworth Page A

parted on the wide upstairs landing with its tall ebony clock ticking in a staid old-fashioned way and the crimson carpet giving out a faint musty smell. James knocked on the door of what he still could not help remembering as Uncle Octavius’ bedroom and went in.
    Carmona was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had got through the evening, and she had been glad that it was over and glad to be alone, but as one moment after another went by, her courage ebbed. She still wore the pale yellow dress and the pearl brooch. Her hands were clasped in her lap. They were clasped so tightly that James’ wedding-ring was cutting into her finger. But she did not feel it. With the sound of his step and the opening of the door she had begun to feel too many other things, and to feel them too intensely. There could be no more putting off. They had come to the place where they must speak the truth to each other and take what came of it. And she was afraid. Not of James, but of what she might be going to find out about him. She thought that he would tell her the truth—she did think that. But she didn’t know what that truth was going to be. He had bought her from Alan Field. He had paid five thousand pounds for her. She could still raise the hot flare of anger when she pressed this home, but it failed again and left her shaking with an inward cold, because if James wasn’t James at all, but someone she had never known, then where was she to turn, and what was she to do? Just for a moment it came to her that there wasn’t anyone she could turn to— except James himself. And if there wasn’t any James, then there wasn’t anyone at all.
    He shut the door and came over to her.
    “Well, my dear, I suppose we have got to talk this out.”
    She said, “Yes.” That is to say, her lips made the right movement, but there wasn’t any sound.
    He sat on the bed beside her.
    “Do you mind so much?”
    Her lips said, “Yes,” again, but there was still no sound. She sat there, not looking at him, not really looking at anything.
    His heart wept for her. Well then, they must get on with it. How did one begin? Now that he had to talk to her about it, all the words which would have to be used were coarse and crude. He said,
    “You don’t want me to touch you, do you?”
    A long shudder went over her. He said quickly,
    “All right, I won’t. But it would be easier if you would let me put my arm round you.”
    The shudder came again.
    He said, “Very well, I’ll tell you.”
    It was quite extraordinarily hard to begin. His mind went back to seeing her that first time in her white dress with her birthday pearls at her throat, and Alan Field smiling beside her, leaning over to whisper in her ear. As the scene sprang into memory, all light and colour, he began to bring it back to her in words. Once he had started, the words came. He told her about sitting there in the box with the Trevors and seeing her like that. He said,
    “I fell in love with you then, and I planned to meet you between the acts. The Trevors would have introduced me— they were talking about you a lot—but Maisie turned faint and we had to take her home. I was due in Cairo next day and no getting out of it. It was fifteen months before I could get away, but I heard about you in a letter from Maisie, and from Mary Maxwell who had been staying in the same house. I ran across her and her husband in Alexandria and she used to talk about you, so I knew that you weren’t married or engaged. As soon as I got home I went down to see the Trevors, and they told me you were marrying Alan Field in a week’s time. Maisie was all for it, but Tom said he would break your heart and that he would give his right hand to prevent it. I would have given more than that, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could do.”
    Carmona lifted her head.
    “What business was it of yours?” she said. Her voice was small and cold.
    “I loved you. You were unhappy.”
    “How did you know—I was