The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [138]
"You will wait, like a good girl?"
"If you'll come back, I will wait."
"And I'll tell them that you are here."
"And you'll tell me what they do then."
He took one more look round the darkening room with her in it, then went out, shut the door, started down to go to the telephone—his somnambulist's walk a little bit speeded up, as though by some bad dream from which he still must not wake. As he went down flight after flight he saw her face on the pillow, and saw in a sleep-bound way how specious wisdom was. One's sentiments—call them that—one's fidelities are so instinctive that one hardly knows they exist: only when they are betrayed or, worse still, when one betrays them does one realise their power. That betrayal is the end of an inner life, without which the everyday becomes threatening or meaningless. At the back of the spirit a mysterious landscape, whose perspective used to be infinite, suddenly perishes: this is like being cut off from the country for ever, not even meeting its breath down the city street.
Major Brutt had a mind that did not articulate: he felt, simply, things had changed for the worse. His home had come down; he must no longer envisage Windsor Terrace, or go there again. He made himself think of the moment—he hoped that the Quaynes would have some suggestion ready, that something could be arranged about Portia crossing London, that he would not have to go with her to their door. But as he went into the upright telephone coffin, he did not doubt for a moment that he was right to telephone, though they might laugh, they would certainly laugh, again.
VI
ST. QUENTIN, drawn to the scene of his crime—or, more properly, to its moral source—was drinking sherry at Anna's when the alarm broke. St. Quentin had been, up to then, in good spirits, relieved to find how little guilty he felt. Nothing was said on the subject of diaries.
The trouble began on the ground floor of 2 Windsor Terrace and moved up. While St. Quentin and Anna were at their sherry, Thomas came home, happened to ask for Portia, was told she was not back. He thought no more of this until Matchett, in person, came to the study door to say Portia was still not in yet, and to ask Thomas what he meant to do. She stood in the doorway, looking steadily at him: these days they did not often confront each other.
"What I mean," she said, "twenty to eight is late."
"She must have made some plan, and then forgotten to tell us. Have you told Mrs. Quayne?"
"Mrs. Quayne has company, sir."
"I know," said Thomas. He almost added: Why else do you think I am down here? He said: "That's no reason not to ask Mrs. Quayne. She may quite likely know where Miss Portia is."
Matchett gave Thomas a look without any quiver; Thomas frowned down at his fountain pen. "Well," he said, "better ask her, at any rate."
"Unless you would wish to, sir...."
Under this compulsion, Thomas heaved himself up from his writing desk. Evidently, Matchett was thinking something—but was Matchett not always thinking something? If you look at life one way, there is always cause for alarm, Thomas went upstairs, to gain the drawingroom landing enough infected by whatever Matchett did think to open the door sharply, then stand on the threshold with a tenseness that unnerved the other two. "Portia isn't back," he said. "I suppose we know where she is?"
St. Quentin at once got up, took Anna's glass to the tray and gave her some more sherry. The business with this enabled him to stay for some time with his back to the Quaynes: he gave himself more sherry, then filled a glass for Thomas. Then he strolled away and, looking out of the window, watched people calmly rowing on the lake. He told himself that if this had been going to happen it would have happened before: the argument therefore was that it could not be happening now. Five days had elapsed since he had lifted his hat to Portia in the graveyard, having just said to her what he had just said. At the same time