first start, her wail of recognition – ‘Francis, I told you not to come,’ – had fled upstairs with Nora, her ears closed to his importunities, reiterating the formula, ‘ Nora’s not well … she’s sick I tell you … get out of my road … I’ve got to tend to her.’
Rebuffed, he climbed sombrely to his room, chilled by the mounting premonitions of this unknown dread. Nora, having scarcely given him a look, had gone immediately to bed. And for an hour he heard Polly, scurrying with trays and hot-water bottles, entreating Nora in a low voice, persecuting her with agitated attentions. Nora, thin as a wand, and pale, somehow had the air of sick-rooms. Polly, worn and harassed, even more negligent in her dress, had acquired a new gesture – a quick pressing of her hand against her brow. Late into the night, from her adjoining room, he heard the mutter of her prayers. Torn by the enigma, Francis bit his lip, turning restlessly between his sheets.
Next morning dawned clear. He rose and, according to his habit, went out to early mass. When he returned he found Nora seated outside on the back-yard steps warming herself in a patch of sunshine while at her feet some chickens cheeped and scuttled. She made no move to let him pass, but when he had stood a moment, she raised her head contemplatively.
‘It’s the holy man … been out already, saving his soul!’
He reddened at her tone, so unexpected, so quietly bitter.
‘Did the Very Reverend Fitzgerald officiate?’
‘No. It was the curate.’
‘The dumb ox in the stall! Ah, well, at least he’s harmless.’
Her head drooped, she stared at the chickens, propping her thin chin upon a thinner wrist. Though she had always been slight he was startled to discover this almost childish fragility which matched so ill the sullen maturity in her eyes, and the new grey dress, womanly and costly, which stiffly adorned her. His heart melted, his breast was filled with a white fire, an unsupportable pain. Her hurt plucked at the chords of his soul. He hesitated, his gaze averted. His voice was low.
‘Have you had breakfast?’
She nodded. ‘ Polly shoved it down my throat. God! If she’d only leave me be!’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘Nothing.’
He paused again, then blurted out, all his feelings for her flooding through the anxiety in his eyes. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk, Nora? Like we used to. It’s so glorious a day!’
She did not move. Yet a faint tinge of animation seemed to penetrate her hollow, shadowed cheek.
‘I can’t be bothered,’ she said heavily. ‘I’m tired!’
‘Oh, come on, Nora … please.’
A dull pause. ‘All right.’
His heart gave another great painful thud. He hurried into the kitchen and cut, with nervous haste, some sandwiches and cake, wrapped them clumsily into a packet. There was no sign of Polly and now, indeed, he was eager to avoid her. In ten minutes Nora and he sat in the red tram, clanging across the city. Within the hour, they tramped side by side, unspeaking, towards the Gosforth Hills.
He wondered at the impulse which had sent him to this familiar stretch. Today the burgeoning countryside was lovely; but its very loveliness was tremulous, unbearable. As they came upon Lang’s orchard, now foamy with blossom, he paused, tried to break the steely silence which lay between them.
‘Look, Nora! Let’s take a stroll round. And have a word with Lang.’
She threw one glance at the orchard, the trees standing spaced and stiff, like chessmen, around the apple shed. She said rudely, bitterly: ‘I don’t want to. I hate that place!’
He did not answer. Dimly he knew her bitterness was not towards him.
By one o’clock they reached the summit of Gosforth Beacon. He could see that she was tired and, without consulting her, stopped under a tall beech, for lunch. The day was unusually warm and clear. In the flat distance beneath them, sparkling with golden light, lay the city, domed and spired, and
Rebuffed, he climbed sombrely to his room, chilled by the mounting premonitions of this unknown dread. Nora, having scarcely given him a look, had gone immediately to bed. And for an hour he heard Polly, scurrying with trays and hot-water bottles, entreating Nora in a low voice, persecuting her with agitated attentions. Nora, thin as a wand, and pale, somehow had the air of sick-rooms. Polly, worn and harassed, even more negligent in her dress, had acquired a new gesture – a quick pressing of her hand against her brow. Late into the night, from her adjoining room, he heard the mutter of her prayers. Torn by the enigma, Francis bit his lip, turning restlessly between his sheets.
Next morning dawned clear. He rose and, according to his habit, went out to early mass. When he returned he found Nora seated outside on the back-yard steps warming herself in a patch of sunshine while at her feet some chickens cheeped and scuttled. She made no move to let him pass, but when he had stood a moment, she raised her head contemplatively.
‘It’s the holy man … been out already, saving his soul!’
He reddened at her tone, so unexpected, so quietly bitter.
‘Did the Very Reverend Fitzgerald officiate?’
‘No. It was the curate.’
‘The dumb ox in the stall! Ah, well, at least he’s harmless.’
Her head drooped, she stared at the chickens, propping her thin chin upon a thinner wrist. Though she had always been slight he was startled to discover this almost childish fragility which matched so ill the sullen maturity in her eyes, and the new grey dress, womanly and costly, which stiffly adorned her. His heart melted, his breast was filled with a white fire, an unsupportable pain. Her hurt plucked at the chords of his soul. He hesitated, his gaze averted. His voice was low.
‘Have you had breakfast?’
She nodded. ‘ Polly shoved it down my throat. God! If she’d only leave me be!’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘Nothing.’
He paused again, then blurted out, all his feelings for her flooding through the anxiety in his eyes. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk, Nora? Like we used to. It’s so glorious a day!’
She did not move. Yet a faint tinge of animation seemed to penetrate her hollow, shadowed cheek.
‘I can’t be bothered,’ she said heavily. ‘I’m tired!’
‘Oh, come on, Nora … please.’
A dull pause. ‘All right.’
His heart gave another great painful thud. He hurried into the kitchen and cut, with nervous haste, some sandwiches and cake, wrapped them clumsily into a packet. There was no sign of Polly and now, indeed, he was eager to avoid her. In ten minutes Nora and he sat in the red tram, clanging across the city. Within the hour, they tramped side by side, unspeaking, towards the Gosforth Hills.
He wondered at the impulse which had sent him to this familiar stretch. Today the burgeoning countryside was lovely; but its very loveliness was tremulous, unbearable. As they came upon Lang’s orchard, now foamy with blossom, he paused, tried to break the steely silence which lay between them.
‘Look, Nora! Let’s take a stroll round. And have a word with Lang.’
She threw one glance at the orchard, the trees standing spaced and stiff, like chessmen, around the apple shed. She said rudely, bitterly: ‘I don’t want to. I hate that place!’
He did not answer. Dimly he knew her bitterness was not towards him.
By one o’clock they reached the summit of Gosforth Beacon. He could see that she was tired and, without consulting her, stopped under a tall beech, for lunch. The day was unusually warm and clear. In the flat distance beneath them, sparkling with golden light, lay the city, domed and spired, and
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