Linda roused herself long enough to accept the brandy Briggs was handing around, and then slumped back into lethargy. They were at it again, Gordon and Andrea-not about demons, this time, but about gardening, which was their other major source of disagreement. If, as Gordon always said, you could call Andrea’s mixture of superstition and random digging real gardening.
Characteristically, Michael was trying to keep the peace.
“I think science is now coming around to Andrea’s point of view,” he said. “Didn’t I read somewhere that there may be a chemical present in the skin of certain people which stimulates plant growth? The old green thumb made respectable?”
Gordon made a rude noise and Michael grinned amiably at him. Linda was accustomed to her husband’s ability to charm; but he had succeeded even faster than usual in winning Michael. Slouched companionably in two chairs, side by side, they gave the impression of having known one another for years. To Linda’s annoyance Andrea failed to see the amused sparkle in Michael’s eyes, the reflection of Gordon’s sly amusement. With loud cries of pleasure, the old woman amplified Michael’s comment, adding, “You don’t pay enough attention to these things, Gordon. If you’d listened to me, your marjoram would be in better shape.”
Gordon laughed aloud, and Andrea finally realized that she was being made fun of. Her eyes narrowed angrily.
“I didn’t know you had an herb garden, Gordon,” Michael said. “How did I miss it today?”
“It’s on the north side. Linda was the one who wanted an herb garden, so I had it laid out according to one of the old Elizabethan manuals. But Andrea is right. My marjoram is in wretched condition.”
“I thought marjoram was a girl’s name,” Michael admitted.
“It’s a rather common plant. I’ve got a few of the rarer kinds that I’m quite proud of. Did you know that there are strict rules for the layout of such gardens-specific plants next to others, some which must be planted in borders, and so on? I’ve gotten quite fascinated by it, even though it was Linda’s idea to begin with.”
She felt their glances, but did not respond. Whose idea had it been? Hers, his-someone else’s? Surely that was unimportant-except as another proof of her failing memory. Then, belatedly, she realized what they were talking about, and she sat up a little straighter. This might be the chance she had been waiting for.
“…not like ordinary floodlights,” Gordon was saying. “It’s a new system. The effect is like very strong moonlight. No, it’s no trouble; I had switches installed all over the house. And I love to show off my gadgets.”
They were all at the window; Gordon was pulling back the heavy damask drapes. Linda turned in time to see Gordon touch the switch and the high oblong of black window turn silver as the outside lights went on.
Michael made appreciative noises.
“It does suggest moonlight,” he said. “If I were ten years younger I’d turn it on at night and go for a moonlight stroll-tripping over things and reciting poetry.”
“You can’t see the herb garden, though,” Gordon said, peering. “It’s mostly hidden by the boxwood. Moonlight stroll? That’s a good idea, Mike. It’s a little chilly, but not too bad. Linda? Andrea?”
Out in the false moonlight, among the shrubbery, one person, or two, might casually wander away from the others… Linda met her husband’s eyes, and a cold, sobering shock ran through her. It was as if he could read her thoughts.
“No,” she said. “I don’t feel like it. But the rest of you go ahead.”
When they had left-Andrea still arguing about marjoram, Briggs trailing his master in silent devotion-Linda got up and went to the window. The pale gray light did not suggest moonlight, not to her distorted imagination. It was a dull, unearthly light, like phosphorescence. It was bright enough; she could make out the tiny individual leaves on the boxwood hedges, twenty feet away. But instead of silvering objects as moonlight did, this light gave them a strange dead hue, between gray and green.
She shrank back into the concealment of the draperies as the others came into view, strolling slowly across the gray-washed grass. Andrea’s floppy sleeves were wrapped around the upper part of her body. It must be pretty chilly outside. Gordon, as always the perfect host, spoke to the old woman and she shook her head vehemently-denying, Linda thought, any need for a wrap. Andrea prided herself on rising above physical needs. Old fool, Linda thought angrily.
After a time her mood improved. It was fun, watching people when they thought they were unobserved, studying faces and gestures undistracted by the added element of speech. Michael was a little taller than Gordon. He had a ridiculous way of walking, like-like a-her mind fumbled for an analogy and then, suddenly, she giggled. Like a camel. The same mixture of awkward angularity and inner dignity.
Gordon’s head had been turned away from her. Now he turned, stretching out his arm to indicate some point of interest. His face was alive with the inner fire of personality that gave it its charm, and his sharp-cut features had a beauty even the ghastly light could not spoil. For the first time in months Linda’s body responded with an inner twist that was more painful than a physical blow. Gordon, she thought. The name was like an incantation, loosening a flood of memories.
It hadn’t been so long. Five years. Was that all? It seemed longer… But she could still visualize Gordon as he had looked the first time she saw him, standing by the battered desk in Room 21 of Goddard Hall-the English Department. Only a dozen of them had signed up for the course, in the Art of the Novel; the departmental chairman had restricted it to seniors. But every eligible senior had registered. They were curious. A little skeptical, some of them, of a visiting professor who was only teaching one course, a non-academician, an intruder from the world of politics and inherited wealth. The Establishment-though they didn’t call it that, then. But no one was contemptuous. Whatever his background, the fact remained that Gordon Randolph had written one of the big books of the decade, which had won every literary prize of its year.
If he sensed their curiosity and skepticism, he didn’t show it. The tall, well-knit figure was relaxed, leaning against the desk; the handsome face smiled slightly, a smile that warmed the dark eyes. Even his clothing was perfect-loafers, dark slacks, tweed jacket. If the jacket had been cut by a tailor whose income was higher than that of any of the professors, it did not flaunt its ancestry. A stupider man might have had unnecessary patches added to the elbows, or affected a pipe. Gordon smoked cigarettes, from a crumpled pack that lay on the desk. That might have been affectation, but Linda didn’t think so. In those days he smoked incessantly, one cigarette after another. That was before the doctors had started warning about cancer. Gordon quit then…
It came back to her so vividly-the shabby old room, scarred and scuffed by generations of students; the dusty sunlight pouring in through streaked panes, brightening the colors of the girls’ pastel sweaters and blouses, showing the unformed contours of the boys’ faces… Beside Gordon’s sure maturity they had seemed so young. Of course all the girls had fallen in love with him, even the ones who sneered at crushes on teachers. And the boys, after the initial antagonism, had succumbed in a different way. Linda could still feel the shock of incredulity when she realized that this god, this man, was looking at her with more than the smiling courtesy he displayed toward the others. That when he talked to her, his voice was different. That he really felt-
The vision was so real that the interruption made it waver and shake, like a film on a cracking screen. Linda turned with the bright shards of memory still close around her and blinked through dazzled eyes at the man whose arrival had disturbed her.
He was alone.
“Where-where are the others?” she stammered.