Chapter Twelve
When she had gone he stood for several minutes listening to her light movements in the room above. Then, automatically, he began to slip the long-playing discs into their polythene covers and to replace them in the cabinet. He half opened one of the three tall windows and peered across the terrace into the night. The snow, beginning with light flurries, had fallen steadily all through the late afternoon, gentle, silent, clouding the air with great drifting flakes. Now the garden was blanketed, nothing visible beyond, life seemed extinguished. No sounds disturbed the unnatural stillness but the abandoned wail of a paddle boat groping its way across the shrouded lake, and the faint whine of the bise springing up, imperceptible at first, but gaining in force. He well knew that wind, spiralling down from the mountains with immediate violence, and recognised through all his senses the portents of a storm. Within five minutes, as he had foreseen, the wind was howling round the house, creaking the shutters and tearing at the roof tiles. The air, turned colder, edged the whirling flakes with ice. They fell sharper, mixed with a heavy spattering hail and clots of driven snow. The trees, unseen but plainly audible, had begun that familiar mad fandango which, mingling Berlioz with the blast, he had so often dramatised for his own entertainment.
But his mood was too disturbed to permit of Berlioz. Wagner would have been more appropriate, he reflected grimly, something like the Ride of the Valkyries, but he had no heart for anything, could think only of the fateful decision he must make, and of her. He shut the window and pulled the tasselled cord that drew the pale pink quilted curtains, wondering if she were asleep, or if, as seemed probable, the storm had disturbed her. The thought of her lying there, alone, listening wide-eyed to the harsh discords of the night! If only he might go to her. But of course he could not. God, how restless he was, he must compose himself, try to clear his mind. Taking a book from the shelves, a new biography of Lord Curzon, he threw himself into a chair. But he could not settle to read, not even of Curzon, a man he deeply admired, had in fact unconsciously adopted as an exemplar. His attention wavered, the words ran together into a meaningless blur. He got up, looked at the Tompion longcase clock: only half past ten: too early for bed, he’d never sleep. Never. In the drawing-room he began to pace up and down, head bowed, without a glance towards his paintings, so often a consolation in the past. He felt unendurably hot, suppressed an inordinate impulse to go out on to the snowbound terrace, went instead to the pantry and turned down the thermostat. No sounds came from the kitchen; Arturo and Elena had retired to their own quarters. Even they had shown signs of disquiet lately, as though waiting, uneasily, for an announcement. Returning to the drawing-room, he was about to resume his pacing when forcibly he drew up short, facing at last the core of his problem.
Once it had been established, finally, that she would not stay, only one possible course of action remained open to him. Though he had stubbornly evaded the issue, he saw that from the beginning, when he set eyes on her in Markinch churchyard, the end had been inevitable, part of his destiny. It was the pressing need to amend his life that in the first instance had brought him back to his native land. Now she offered the very opportunity he sought, and with it all the wonder of her love. How could he refuse? She had become an absolute necessity to him. If he should lose her through vacillation or stupidity, life would be impossible. Hadn’t he learned that lesson from his sad youthful mistake? He must accompany her to Kwibu, give himself up completely to the work ordained for him. And why not? It was splendid work. He truly wanted to be the new person she would make of him. And he would be. It was not too late. It was not impossible. Others had found that saving spark, and in comparable manner. He had read of them, tortured men in spiritual travail, who discovered themselves in strange suspenseful backgrounds, habitually tropical, and at the last gasp.
“I’ll go,” he said out loud. “It’s the only way.”
When he had spoken these thrilling words, he experienced an immediate singing sensation of release. He felt lighter suddenly, freed, as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders. What a liberation—almost a transfiguration! Was it what they called a conversion? She had spoken of grace, and now he seemed not alone to sense its meaning, but actually to feel it flowing into and through him. A sweet ichor, a fountain of light—the words came to him as, with head thrown back, he looked upwards, deeply and genuinely moved, experiencing fully this moment of beatitude, even feeling himself, though distantly, in touch with Heaven. He could not yet ascend to the heights, he had been earthbound too long, and so he did not attempt a prayer, but that—later perhaps—might come.
Slowly, he relaxed. It was done, the die heroically cast. Gladness overwhelmed him. And how easy it had been, simply an acceptance of the truth and an offering of himself. Why had he hesitated so long, keeping her waiting in an agony of protracted uncertainty? For she had suffered, poor little thing, perhaps more acutely than he. If only he could tell her now, spare her these extra hours of suspense. Yet would it be quite proper? Right and reason were on his side. But no, he felt it might scarcely be correct. Well, at least he would rest with a mind at peace.
After standing motionless for several minutes he switched off the lights and went slowly upstairs to his room. Still inspired, warm with salvation, he took a tepid bath and his usual dust with talcum, put on his sleeping coat, morocco slippers and dressing gown, sat down on the edge of his bed. He must really turn in. Yet the excitement of his decision kept mounting within him. His good news simply would not keep, physically he could not contain it. Was she asleep? If not, it would be only Christian charity to deliver the good tidings now, in person. He got up, hesitated, speculatively opened his door, and gazed across the long upper landing. Then, holding his breath, he tiptoed cautiously, without a single creak, over the thick Wilton carpet towards her room.
The wind, still roaring outside, intensified the inner stillness of the darkened landing as he paused outside her door. He almost turned back. Then, his pulse sounding in his ears, he tapped upon the panel, gently turned the handle.
“Kathy,” he whispered, “are you awake?”
An immediate stirring in the darkness answered him, even before her startled voice came back.
“David!”
“Don’t be alarmed, dear Kathy. I thought the storm might have kept you awake. And as you are . . . I have something important to tell you.”
Feeling his way forward, he came to the bed and knelt down beside it. Faintly, he could see the outline of her head upon the pillow, of a bare arm resting upon the counterpane. He touched it lightly, reassutingly.
“Kathy, dearest. Kathy. My mind is made up. I had to let you know at once. I am coming with you.”
“David!” she said again, in a soft thrilling whisper. He could feel the sudden joy that took possession of her, every nerve in her seemed alive. “Oh, thank you—thank you, from my heart.”