Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner Page A

get in or do you want me to pick you up and put you in?”
    â€œI’m going to cry in a minute. You’d better let me go.”
    â€œOh, damn! Why, sugar, I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to see you. We’ve got to see each other if it’s going to be all off with us. Come on, I’ve been good to you.”
    She relaxed. “Well, but just around the block then. I’ve got to get back to them.” She raised a foot to the running board. “Promise?” she insisted.
    â€œSure. Round the block it is. I won’t run off with you if you say not.”
    She got in, and as they drove off she looked quickly to the house. There was a face in the window, a round face.
    IV
    George turned from the street and drove down a quiet lane bordered by trees, between walls covered with honeysuckle. He stopped the car, and she said swiftly:
    â€œNo, no, George! Drive on.”
    But he cut the switch. “Please,” she repeated. He turned in his seat.
    â€œCecily, you are kidding me, aren’t you?”
    She turned the switch and tried to reach the starter with her foot. He caught her hands, holding her. “Look at me.”
    Her eyes grew blue again with foreboding.
    â€œI don’t know. Oh, George, it all happened so suddenly! I don’t know what to think. When we were in there talking about him it all seemed so grand for Donald to be coming back, in spite of that woman with him; and to be engaged to a man who will be famous when he gets here—oh, it seemed then that I did love him: it was exactly the thing to do. But now . . . I’m just not ready to be married yet. And he’s been gone so long, and to take up with another woman on his way to me—I don’t know what to do. I—I’m going to cry,” she ended suddenly, putting her crooked arm on the seatback and burying her face in her elbow. He put his arm around her shoulders and tried to draw her to him. She raised her hands between them, straightening her arms.
    â€œNo, no, take me back.”
    â€œBut Cecily—”
    â€œYou mustn’t! Don’t you know I’m engaged to be married? He’ll probably want to be married tomorrow, and, I’ll have to do it.”
    â€œBut you can’t do that. You aren’t in love with him.”
    â€œBut I’ve got to, I tell you!”
    â€œAre you in love with him?”
    â€œTake me back to Uncle Joe’s. Please!”
    He was the stronger and at last he held her close, feeling her small bones, her frail taut body beneath her dress. “Are you in love with him?” he repeated.
    She burrowed her face into his coat.
    â€œLook at me.” She refused to lift her face and he slipped his hand under her chin, raising it. “Are you?”
    â€œYes, yes,” she said wildly, staring at him. “Take me back!”
    â€œYou are lying. You aren’t going to marry him.”
    She was weeping. “Yes, I am. I’ve got to. He expects it and Uncle Joe expects it. I must, I tell you.”
    â€œDarling, you can’t. Don’t you love me? You know you do. You can’t marry him.” She stopped struggling and lay against him, crying. “Come on, say you won’t marry him.”
    â€œGeorge, I can’t,” she said hopelessly. “Don’t you see I have got to marry him?”
    Young and miserable they clung to each other. The slumbrous afternoon lay about them in the empty lane. Even the sparrows seemed drowsy and from the spire of the church pigeons were remote and monotonous, unemphatic as sleep. She raised her face.
    â€œKiss me, George.”
    He tasted tears: their faces were coolly touching. She drew her head back, searching his face. “That was the last time, George.”
    â€œNo, no,” he objected, tightening his arms. She resisted a moment, then kissed him passionately. “Darling!”
    â€œDarling!”
    She straightened up, dabbing at her