Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner Page B

eyes with his handkerchief . “There! I feel better now. Take me home, kind sir.”
    â€œBut, Cecily,” he protested, trying to embrace her again. She put him aside coolly.
    â€œNot anymore, ever. Take me home, like a nice boy.”
    â€œBut, Cecily——”
    â€œDo you want me to get out and walk? I can, you know: it isn’t far.”
    He started the engine and drove on in a dull youthful sorrow. She patted at her hair, her fingers bloomed slimly in it, and they turned on to the street again. As she descended at the gate he made a last despairing attempt.
    â€œCecily, for God’s sake!”
    She looked over her shoulder at his stricken face. “Don’t be silly. George. Of course I’ll see you again. I’m not married—yet. “
    Her white dress in the sun was an unbearable shimmer sloping to her body’s motion and she passed from sunlight to shadow, mounting the steps. At the door she turned, flashed him a smile and waved her hand. Then her white dress faded beyond a fanlight of muted colour dim with age and lovely with lack of washing, leaving George to stare at the empty maw of the house in hope and despair and baffled youthful lust.
    V
    Jones at the window saw them drive away. His round face was enigmatic as a god’s, his clear obscene eyes showed no emotion. You are good, you are, he thought in grudging, unillusioned admiration. I hand it to you. He was still musing upon her when the mean-looking black-haired woman, interrupting the rector’s endless reminiscences of his son’s boyhood and youth, suggested that it was time to go to the station.
    The divine became aware of the absence of Cecily, who was at that moment sitting in a stationary motorcar in an obscure lane, crying on the shoulder of a man whose name was not Donald. Jones, the only one who had remarked the manner of her going, was for some reason he could not have named safely non-committal. The rector stated fretfully that Cecily, who was at that moment kissing a man whose name was not Donald, should not have gone away at that time, But the other woman (I bet she’s mean as hell, thought Jones) interrupted again, saying that it was better so.
    â€œBut she should have gone to the station to meet him,” the rector stated with displeasure.
    â€œNo, no. Remember, he is sick. The less excitement the better for him. Besides, it is better for them to meet privately.”
    â€œAh, yes, quite right, quite right. Trust a woman in these things, Mr. Jones. And for that reason perhaps you had better wait also, don’t you think?”
    â€œBy all means, sir. I will wait and tell Miss Saunders why you went without her. She will doubtless be anxious to know.”
    After the cab had called for them and gone, Jones, still standing, stuffed his pipe with moody viciousness. He wandered aimlessly about the room, staring out the windows in turn, puffing his pipe; then pausing to push a dead match beneath a rug with his toe he crossed deliberately to the rector’s desk. He drew and closed two drawers before finding the right one.
    The bottle was squat and black and tilted took the light pleasantly. He replaced it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. And just in time, too, for her rapid brittle steps crossed the veranda and he heard a motorcar retreating.
    The door framed her fragile surprise. She remarked, “Oh! Where are the others?”
    â€œWhat’s the matter? Have a puncture?” Jones countered nastily. Her eyes flew like birds and he continued: “The others? They went to the station, the railroad station. You know: where the trains come in. The parson’s son or something is coming home this afternoon. Fine news, isn’t it? But won’t you come in?”
    She entered hesitant, watching him.
    â€œOh, come on in, sister, I won’t hurt you.”
    â€œBut why didn’t they wait for me?”
    â€œThey thought you didn’t want to