“You’re nothing but eyes! Staring—tired—over-worked eyes!”
She came nearer.
“Ah, you’re frightened! You’re very frightened.”
“I’ve been ill for months.”
She turned aside, then said—as if addressing an invisible witness:
“He’s been ill for months.”
Then, to me:
“You’re frightened. You can’t deceive me. I know every sign of fear. Yes, every one.”
Silence.
Then, almost in a whisper:
“You believe she’s dead—murdered? You believe that? You?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know it?”
“I only know what every one knows.”
Again, she turned aside:
“He only knows what every one knows.”
Then, with another abrupt change of tone and manner, she asked:
“Why have you come?”
“I don’t know.”
This fatuous reply evidently belonged to her world, because she accepted it as entirely adequate.
“Quite right. One never knows anything. Never I . . . Perhaps you’ve come to tell me something.”
Instantly her features were lit with almost child-like expectation—which flickered out when I shook my head.
“Come here! Nearer! I want to look at you! She said you were a great artist . . . Are you hiding her?”
“Of course not.”
“He’s not hiding her . . . When did you see her last?”
“About two months ago.”
“He saw her about two months ago. He’s known her for years—and he never came here till to-day. And he thinks she’s dead. And he’s not hiding her. And he’s frightened. We shall have to think about all this. Think about it very carefully. At night. Yes, at night, when they’re all asleep—when great winds roar in from the sea, looking for something, endlessly, everywhere—crying for something, screaming for something, howling for something . . . Oh my God, my God!”
Then, immediately, in a casual conversational tone:
“You’ve very small feet and hands for a man. Tiny!”
Pause.
“I slept on the sofa this afternoon. So stupid! I dream if I sleep in the day . . . Do you dream?”
“Sometimes.”
“He dreams sometimes.”
She began to wander about the room, looking at things as if she had never seen them before. After a long silence, she suddenly asked:
“Were you her lover?”
“Yes.”
She came closer to me.
“You loved her. You loved the body I gave her. Wait!”
She began to rummage in the big box by the fireplace and eventually produced a pair of baby shoes.
“The first! The first she ever wore.”
They had no effect on me whatever and she evidently realised it, for she threw them back into the box, then came to me and took my arm.
“Sit there.” She pointed to the small arm-chair. “I’ll give you an album to look at. You look at it. And I’ll look at—you.”
When we were seated, she took one of the albums from the round table by her side and handed it to me.
It contained snapshots and photographs of Carol almost from the day of her birth to the night of her death. There were nearly two hundred of them. To turn the leaves was to follow every phase of her development. Carol as a baby—a child—a girl—a woman. At school—at home—on holiday—abroad—in town—in the country—alone—with others. Caroclass="underline" sad—laughing—serious—lovely. It was unbelievable. Frightening! This was no shape. This was Carol. The unknown Carol.
Again and again, I became so absorbed that I forgot I was being watched by the witch-like woman, crouched in the chair opposite. I entirely forgot her, when I reached the photographs of Carol taken just before her father’s death. I forgot everything, as I studied the contrast between them and the Carol I had met in Hartley Harrington’s studio. For several minutes I gazed at an amazing photograph taken in 1938. There was nothing enigmatic in that face—no bewilderment in the eyes: no compression of the lips. That face was a window—from which her whole being looked out.
At last I shut the album.
“He’s seen them all!”
She leaned forward, then said:
“I’ll give you the album.”
“I don’t want it. I won’t have it.”
“He’s angry. He loved her. She’s dead. And he doesn’t want her photographs.”
Then, almost in a whisper:
“Why don’t you want them?”
“Because I don’t. Why don’t you want them?”
“I’d like to think of you looking at them. At night—when you can’t sleep.”
Silence.
All sorts of thoughts—trivial and terrible—raced round my mind. At one moment, I marvelled at the varying tone of her voice, which seemed different every time she spoke. The next moment, the desire to get away raged through me. But, eventually, I was obsessed by the fear that I should faint.
At last I got up.
“He’s going! He comes here—doesn’t ask a single question—and now he’s going.”
I stood, leaning against the table, trying to stop the room from spinning round.
She came over to me.
“We’re alike. D’you know that? We’re alike! . . . Sometimes, when you’re out, you come to a turning and see a notice which says: Private Road.”
Pause.
“I am a Private Road. And you are a Private Road. Every one knows I am. No one thinks you are. That’s because you’re so clever.”
She held my head with her long narrow hands.
“So clever! Such a tired head—through being so clever! Oh, so tired! So many people coming and going along his Private Road—thinking it’s a thoroughfare. So many! So tired! So clever!”
Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I sank into a chair.
“He’s ill! Heavens! He’s ill!”
She ran to the box, started throwing its contents all over the room, but eventually produced a small bottle and a dusty glass.
“Look! Brandy! Such a kind lady gave it to me. Oh, so kind. You’ve no idea. Trained herself to be kind for years. For years!”
She poured out some brandy, then handed me the glass.
“Thank you.”
“He’s thanking me. S-ssh!”
Pause.
“He’s better! He’s beginning to look at things again with his gimlet eyes!”
I got up slowly.
She came to me, took the lapel of my coat in her right hand, then said:
“You’re going?”
The voice was Carol’s! And the attitude was Carol’s! Again and again, when I was about to leave the flat, Carol had stood like this, looking down, holding my lapel with her right hand.
At last I managed to go into the hall and put on my overcoat. I opened the front door, went slowly down the steps, then along the narrow path. When I reached the gate, I stopped and looked back.
She was standing at the top of the steps. For nearly a minute, we gazed at each other.
As I walked away, I heard the front door shut.
Chapter Four
HARRY AMBROSE
When I arrived at the flat, my first fear was that Antony would telephone. This possibility alarmed me, because I knew I was incapable of saying one word about Mrs. Norton. I dared not think of her.
I did not bother about food. I mixed a drink, then sank into an arm-chair and tried to outlaw all memories of my visit to Hove. It was useless, of course. Every phase of our meeting—from its first moment to its last—emerged in such detail that it seemed a reality, not a retrospect.