He let the curtain fall back into place, opened the door to the little front hall, with its wooden hat pegs on the white paneling, and there on the floor, as he had foreseen, was the pink cart. A doll, too, squatted against the wall, its china arms upraised, the dead blue eyes half-closed, and a level fringe of brown hair showing under the bonnet’s edge. “Just a little pink cart”—Jim Connor had said: the typical, the eternal, pink cart of childhood, with the yellow tongue, the bands of silvery metal round the wheels, and the crude bright floral design on the hubs. How she would love it — how she would love the doll, too, and take it for rides round the garden — and how good of Jim! How good of him to think of it, and do it, in the middle of his own troubles — to go to a shop and find these things! A Messiah, as Kitty had said? Perhaps not. But there were times when he was very like.
He picked them up, and carried them slowly through the studio into the hall, where he put them down on the window seat. It was odd — but it seemed to him, for some reason, that he was noticing everything, every detail. As he passed through the studio it was as if he enumerated each thing that he saw. The wood basket, of pale woven wood, and a pine log with silver moss on it; the brass Cape Cod firelighter on the brick hearth, with a splayed red reflection of the lampshade down its side; the black iron rosettes, like black pond lilies, of the firedogs; a wavering comb of flame, fine-toothed and golden, just beginning to play up, and retreat, between the uppermost logs of the fire; and Karl’s little etching in the corner — his first — of a Mexican adobe hut, round-doored, in snow-bright moonlight: he had observed each of these things in turn, and subtly as if out of some deep necessity or purpose. Or perhaps simply to be reassured, to be given back his confidence?
But why?
How ridiculous!
Just the same—
In the hall, standing by the stove again — the stove in which perhaps he ought to lay a fire — he listened, swaying slightly in his effort to remain still. He heard nothing, nothing beyond the running of the water — and then it seemed to him wrong to listen, or only to listen — wrong to be there in secret, listening — so he went hesitantly into the dark dining room, and down into the kitchen, and back into the dining room again. He struck a match and relighted the candle on the piano top — for it would be absurd to be found just standing there in the dark, doing nothing — and looked up once more at Famous Place to See Moon; but this time without seeing it.
— Famous Place to See Moon! Christ!
He said it aloud, with surprising anger and bitterness, stressing ironically each word in turn; swung about, his hands in his khaki pockets, to stare towards the dark Purington house; and then found himself, without having made any decision about it, knocking at the white bathroom door.
“Enid,” he said.
The water was still running — he listened with averted face, breathing rather quickly. Perhaps she couldn’t hear him? He knocked again.
“Enid, please!”
There was no answer.
“Enid!”
“Will you please go away, Timothy?”
The voice was muffled and distant — the water seemed to be running louder.
“No, I won’t go away. Will you please let me in?”
“I don’t want to see you.”
“Ee, dear, listen — I’m sorry I said that, terribly sorry—”
“It doesn’t matter — any more, Timothy.”
“Of course it matters, darling. Darling, don’t be absurd.”
“It doesn’t matter; nothing matters. Timothy, will you please go away?”
“No, Ee. I won’t go away. I’m going to stay right here till you open the door. Now, darling, don’t be silly—”
The sound of water seemed to have diminished — perhaps one of the taps had been turned off. But there was no answer, no other sound. He listened, his cheek against the door — he tried pressing it, but it was latched. He rattled it again.
“Ee, dear, did you hear what I said? Please!”
There was again a long pause, and then Enid’s voice, now a little clearer:
“Yes, I heard you—”
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“Darling, do forgive me. I didn’t mean it, I was just too angry — and let me come in, won’t you, please?”
“No, Tip—”
“Please, darling—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t, Tip — not now. I look too dreadful—”
“As if that mattered — but we can’t leave it like this, darling, it was all so wrong and bad — are you still listening, darling?”
“Yes, I’m listening—”
He grinned, privately, at the door, and said:
“You’re running much too much water, you know!”
“Oh!”
“In every sense of the word. And I’m very much ashamed of myself, and I love you very much. And if you don’t come out this minute I’ll break the door down. See?”
“But I can’t, looking like this—”
“Oh, yes, you can.”
“Well—”
There was a pause, the water was turned off, a little interval of silence; and then he heard her footsteps coming towards him, the obstinate resonant little click of the door hook, and the door swung slowly inward. She was pale, she was trying to smile, there were still tears in her eyes, she was shy — she was as shy as she had been when he had first told her that he was in love with her. Her hands held behind her back, her mouth trembling a little, she looked up at him, the pupils of her eyes very large and dark, very hurt, but very tender, too. The arrogance had gone from her — and in the moment before either of them moved it was as if he heard, high above them somewhere, the swift wingbeats of hatred, flashing past and away — and then he put out his hand and took the green-smocked elbow in it and drew her towards him. She didn’t offer to kiss him — she merely leaned her cheek against his breast.
“Darling, will you forgive me—”
“Of course, Tip, dear, if you’ll forgive me, too—”
“No, I’m afraid I was the naughty one — but oh, what a relief—!”
“Isn’t it heavenly—!”
“Just to be together again, after all these days and days—”
“I’ve been very hard and mean and selfish, Tip, I’m so dreadfully ashamed, but I’ll do better—”
“No, darling, no. It’s only that things have been difficult for us—”
“Do you think so? But aren’t we silly to hurt each other so much!”