She nodded. He looked at her for a moment, and then he put his arms round her and gave her a kiss.
It was so wonderful a kiss that she felt it to be a gift, even in the confusion that filled her mind. Forgotten memories of her mother’s good-night kisses came back to her, as if they were the breath of spring flowers rather than thoughts; and memories of the long afternoons when she had been contentedly alone in the little room at school, writing with the solemn moon looking in at her; she remembered rare moments as a child when she had felt safe and surrounded by love; and moments after she was grown-up when she had been sure that one day she would be happy, as if an angel had told her so in a dream. Peace and sweetness came to her from the gentle embrace in which he held her and the firm tender touch of his mouth on her own; and as she shut her eyes she felt veils falling and falling away in her mind and heart and soul, revealing deeper beauty and peace. These veils were years, she suddenly knew, falling and falling away into the past, and in each year he and she would belong to one another, and in each one they would learn to love one another more. And they lived happily ever after came into her mind; the lovely ending to all the fears of the fairy tale, the desire of the world. And they lived happily ever after. She opened her eyes, and she was crying.
“Darling, it’s all right. Don’t cry. I feel it too. It’s real. Whatever happens, you and I belong to each other, don’t we?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
They held one another in silence for a little while, and then he said:
“Now I can go home and try to work. I had to ask you.”
“I’m so glad you did. Oh, I am so happy! I didn’t know people could be happy like this.”
He smiled, murmuring to her and kissing her. “Neither did I. But it’s real—can’t you feel it is?”
The bell of the apartment rang, making her start, and he gently released her from his arms.
“That’s Lou. I’ll go.”
He went quickly across to the door, Amy following him more slowly, wiping her eyes.
When he opened the door she had an instant’s impression of the two girls standing there on the landing in the dusty sunlight pouring through the windows, both of them bending forward eagerly; and then the picture broke up as Lou came forward and put her arms round Bob’s neck. The other girl, who was staring at Bob, did not move but her handbag fell to the floor. Amy picked it up, and the other girl made an uncertain little movement with her hand. “Thank you,” she said, slowly turning her eyes away from Bob and looking at Amy. “Oh, thank you.” They looked at one another for a moment and then Amy said: “You’re Miss Viner, aren’t you? I’m Amy Lee. I expect Lou told you—”
“Yes, she did. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Lee,” said Helen, smiling; and as she spoke Bob put out his hand to her and drew her towards him.
“Hullo, Helen. I’m glad you——”
“Bob,” she said, as if to herself, and they exchanged an affectionate kiss; then all moved forward into the room and Amy shut the door.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said at once to Lou, beginning to pull up chairs for everyone and to hand cigarettes with a natural wish to make them feel more at ease; the moment was so full of emotion that no-one found it easy to begin talking, and they sat down amid half-finished remarks and polite little exclamations of “Let me——” “No—you sit here——”
“I’m glad to see you, too. I’ll sort everything out presently,” answered Lou, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “In a minute or two, I expect, only I’m so knocked endways over Bob. It certainly is good to see you again!” she ended cheerfully, turning to her brother. But Amy, with her perceptions made more sensitive than usual by the experiences of the morning, could tell that she was so deeply shocked by Bob’s appearance that she found it difficult to talk to him naturally; and when she stole a glance at Helen, while busily mixing drinks at a side table, she saw on her face, uncontrolled, the same shocked, incredulous look that Lou was trying to hide.
Of course, she thought, shaking the mixer, I don’t know what he was like before he went away, but he must be dreadfully changed, to make them look like that.
“I came to borrow twenty dollars from Boone,” said Bob, leaning back on the divan with his arms behind his head and beginning to talk with an effort. “I had a job in Harrisburg, playing the piano, but I walked out of that and hitch-hiked here. Miss Lee very kindly asked me to stay.”
“We thought you were with Dan,” murmured Lou, wondering how soon she could get a doctor to him.
“So I was, until three weeks ago.”
“Have you called up Mother yet?”
He shook his head.
“She’s been away with Dad on a trip, but they get home this afternoon.”
“All right; I’ll call them later. Where are you staying?”
“The Abraham Lincoln, on Lexington Avenue and Twenty-third.”
“I’ll come back with you, if they’ve got a room? Is it very full?”
“No. They’re sure to have one. When are you going home?”
“When I’ve talked to Dad. To-morrow, if I can.”
The conversation between the brother and sister went on in quiet tones, as if they were in a sick room. Bob was very tired. He lay back with his head on the red cushion, looking wearily at Lou, or sometimes turning to smile at Helen, and then moving his head to watch Amy as she went about the kitchen getting crackers out of the cupboard. Lou continued to question him cautiously about his plans and to make arrangements for his return, but she found it difficult to talk naturally, as Amy had seen, partly because she was so shocked at the change in him and partly because she was fascinated by the red cushion behind his head! She kept staring at it and noticing every detail of its appearance; the thick white fringe that decorated it, the different shade of whiteness in Bob’s cheek, the dent his head made in its fullness. In this state of her feelings she was grateful to Amy for busying herself calmly with the ordinary duties of a hostess and thus helping to create a more natural atmosphere in the room, and she unconsciously began to think of Amy as less of a child and with more respect.
Helen sat in silence, sipping her drink while Lou and Bob talked. All the time their quiet conversation went on, her eyes were moving slowly about the room; from the white matting on the floor to the Spanish leather screen, then to the picture of the caracolling horses, past them to the window with the dull view of roofs and distant walls. Her gaze went searching desperately, like someone dying of thirst, for one drop, one sparkle, of beauty to comfort her. For weeks, ever since Bob disappeared, beauty had been her only refuge; and now that he had come back and she had seen how he looked at Amy, she knew that she was going to need its help (but she had not thought that possible!) more than ever.
At last her eyes rested on a Japanese painting of water and moonlit islands, and slowly the pain lessened until it was bearable once more.
She managed to smile naturally and to answer Amy’s shy question as to how she liked New York, and gradually the conversation grew more normal, as Lou joined in with comments on Amy’s trip to Illinois. Presently a discussion was going on, and they were even smiling a little over Amy’s discoveries about America. But in spite of their efforts the atmosphere was a strange one, subdued and almost exhausted, as if these four handsome young people under twenty-five had just escaped some peril of which they did not wish to speak. Each one of them, too, was busy with strong feelings to which they could give no expression, and their voices were slightly absent-minded and their glances kept straying.
I’ll go crazy with curiosity if I can’t get her alone and hear all about it soon, thought Lou. It’s the weirdest thing, his turning up here—and yet I suppose that’s perfectly natural, really; why shouldn’t he come to Boone’s for money? It’s those dreams of hers, and that red cushion! Oh, that cushion! If she hadn’t had the dreams she wouldn’t have recognized me at the party; and if she hadn’t told me about them I shouldn’t have advised her to take the fla
t; and if strangers had been here, instead of Amy, Bob would have gone away without knowing that we were going to be in New York to-day, and we should none of us have been here now. Everything goes back to those dreams of hers. It’s getting creepier and creepier, like an Alexander Woollcott story, and I don’t like it, decided Lou, the calm climate of whose mind had no natural sympathy with “creepiness.” It’s grand to have him back, of course (though I’m afraid Mother will get a shock when she sees him) and I like that funny little number better every minute. But it is creepy! I’m glad I didn’t tell Mother about those dreams.
She was also conscious that Helen was suffering, and this gave her pain. She was the only one of the Vorsts who had guessed the depth of Helen’s feelings. Though the rest of the family had always vaguely thought that “it would be grand if Bob married Helen,” and had realized that Helen and Bob had a special feeling for one another, they had never become aware that Helen loved him. But Lou had known it since she was a child, and now that she, too, had seen how he looked at Amy, she knew how Helen must feel, and she could not console herself by thinking easily, “Oh, she’ll find someone else.” Helen was beautiful and good and men loved her; she would certainly marry, but Lou was sure that she would not find someone else.
“I’m sorry, I feel bad,” said Bob suddenly, during a pause in the talk. “It’s nothing much, don’t worry.” But he looked so ill that Lou said rather quickly to Helen:
“I should think he’d better come back with us now, hadn’t he? And he can rest in the hotel while I call up Mother and break the news to her.”
“He could stay here, if you like?” suggested Amy timidly, seating herself upon the edge of the divan with her little hands locked over one another, and looking at him in deep distress. The innocent possessiveness in her voice, the look with which he met her glance, made their feelings about one another so plain that Lou hastily glanced away from Helen’s face.
“No, I’ll come with you,” he said decidedly to his sister. “And I’ll call up Mother, too; I’m not so sick as all that. Then I shan’t be any more trouble to you,” he added to Amy.
She shook her head.
“I’ll get a taxi,” said Helen suddenly, going over to the telephone.
While she was dialling the number and Lou was painting her mouth in front of the mirror, Bob said to Amy:
“I’ll call you up later. Will you be in?”
Again she moved her head, looking at him.
“I must go with them now,” he went on in the same low voice, “because there are so many things to fix up, now I’m going home to get on with my work. I want to stay with you, but I can’t, I’ve been crazy enough. But don’t feel bad about it, darling, it’s real, remember. And I’ll call you up to-night.”
In the midst of a little pause during which they looked steadily at one another Helen announced that the taxi was coming round the block. Bob got up and they all moved towards the door.
“I’ll call you up early to-morrow,” said Lou meaningly to Amy, as they all went down in the lift. “Maybe we could meet for coffee in the morning?”
“I should love it,” replied Amy, but without enthusiasm.
She did not want to talk about what had happened; it was already sacred. Lou gave her a dry look which she did not see, and thought, Relatives Keep Off. Well, I’m glad it’s her, for it might have been Francey Carr or something from the Ecstasy Club. All the same, she must know where he’s been and everything, and to-morrow I am going to have a bare outline. I don’t want to probe their feelings, but a bare outline I must and will have. Myron will want to know all about it when Bob gets home and of course Bob won’t tell him one thing and probably he won’t tell us much, either. If I don’t tell Myron something when I get home he’ll make it all up as he goes along, and people will be talking quite enough, without Myron’s help. Besides, I want to know.
The lift stopped in the lobby and they went across to the door. Bob took Amy’s hand for a moment and smiled down at her and said, “Good-bye,” and the girls made friendly farewells, and then the three Americans went quickly down the steps to the waiting taxi.
Amy was startled for a second; the contrast between the girls in elegant dark summer dresses and the big fair young man in broken shoes and stained jacket made the group look so dramatic as to be unreal. They’re going, and I shall never see them again! she thought. But the taxi driver scarcely glanced at the three, for the Village was the Village, and full of odd sights; and as the taxi drove away Bob leant out of the window and moved his hand to her. while the girls waved and smiled.
She went slowly back to the lift, seeing nothing but his smiling white face, and the little movement of his hand. She stood quite still as the lift climbed to the sixth floor, staring at the wall and feeling desolate, for suddenly the events of yesterday evening were no longer real; and she already knew that her heart was a prisoner and could only be comforted by realizing that the words he and she had said to one another, the slumber they had shared on the red couch, were true.
In the apartment, cigarette smoke lingered on the air and the glasses stood about on the arm-trays of the chairs. The sunlight poured in with a steady look, as if it would burn the walls and floor. She moved from room to room emptying ashtrays and tidying the glasses away, plumping the cushions and arranging the chairs, while an aching lump grew in her throat and a painful feeling of confusion and loss, as bodily as a headache, slowly overcame her. Presently, while she was getting out her manuscript and putting her glass of water ready, she began to cry, and though she sat down and prepared to write she could not stop crying. She got up and wandered round the room, rubbing the tears from her eyes, and at last lay down on the divan, still impressed by his body, and cried for a long time. It was while she was lying there, wearied out, that a large box of pale yellow roses arrived, with a card:
“For my Swimming Girl”
An American courtship had begun.
“She isn’t a bit what one expects a writer to be, is she?” said Helen suddenly, as she and Lou were going up in the lift to their room, having left Bob asleep in his.
“No. Most writers are nuts,” answered Lou, not aggressively but as one who refers to a fact. “She’s inclined to be jittery but she’s not nuts. Did you like her?”
It was the natural question to ask and therefore Lou asked it, for she was determined that there should be no meaningful silences, no sympathetic glances, between herself and Helen. She knew that if they were distasteful to herself they would be unbearable to her cousin.
“There’s something striking about her, but I can’t truthfully say I liked her,” replied Helen, going pale but also speaking naturally. “She has that very unforthcoming British air—you know. It doesn’t attract me. But if I knew her well I should respect her. She’s single-minded, I should think.”
“Knows what she wants, do you mean?”
“No. I meant that she only likes a very few things and people, and is faithful to them. Most people have so many loyalties and interests that they’re all tangled-up. She’s restful, somehow.”
The words what she wants—faithful—lingered on the air with a faint sadness after they were spoken, and for a moment both girls were silent, thinking about the same thing, of which they would never speak to one another. Then Helen added:
“She doesn’t sparkle at all—”
“Thank God.”
—“And her books don’t either, do they? I was surprised by the one you lent me, it was so childish.”
“It was a swell story, I couldn’t put it down.”
“But only a story, Lou. No deep psychological problems or social analysis, and nothing mature.”
“It did make you feel you were in the story yourself, though,” said Lou thoughtfully, as they walked down the corridor. “I really felt I knew that queer old house in whereisit—”
“… Lambeth. In London, south of the Thames.”
“… and that creepy old guy and his cats. I got a kick out of it
.”
Helen shook her head.
“I guess I’m too old for fairy tales,” she said gently. It was the first bitter sentence Lou had heard her speak in the twenty years they had known one another, and she had to resist an impulse to take her arm and give it a loving pressure, but she did resist it, and they went into their room in silence.
I must get away, thought Helen, beginning to brush her hair. Miles away to California, or Florida—and stay there. If I’m to make anything of my life, if I’m not to go rotten with dreams, that’s what I’ve got to do, and quick.
It’s tough on her and she’s being grand about it, thought Lou, sitting on her bed and carefully examining her stockings for runs. I wonder if Mother and Dad put Bob off by dropping hints? That’s what everyone has always done to me and Stebby. Maybe we’ll walk in married one of these beautiful Spring mornings, we must be pretty attracted or we wouldn’t fight the way we do, but I’m darned if I marry Stebby—the fresh thing!—until the old folks give up hoping I will. Nudge—hint—wink, until I could howl like a timber wolf!
She walked over to Helen’s bureau and looked at a photograph of Helen’s dark, slender, conceited brother while she took off her hat. Pleased with yourself, beautiful? She made the faintest face at his laughing face before she turned away.
This time last night he was here. Amy was sitting at the table late that evening trying to write, but every few sentences she stopped and began to draw doodles on the blotting paper, while her mind went spinning away into memories and dreams. This time last night he was here. She was also waiting for the telephone to ring. (Ah, that sound! which is usually an accursed nuisance but can be romantic as any lieder) and fearing that soon it would be too late, for it was ten o’clock, and in the circles in which she was most at home in London people did not ring up after ten o’clock, any more than they sent telegrams unless something was wrong.