The Romantic Part 5

But before that--the night they went to Stow Fair together; crossing the street at the sharp turn by the church gate, something happened.

They hadn't heard the motor car coming; it was down on them before they could see it, swerving round her side of the street. He had had his hand tight on her arm to steer her through the crowd. When the car came ... when the car came ... he let go and jumped clean to the curb.

She could feel the splash-board graze her thigh, as she sprang clear of it, quick, like a dog.

She was sure he jumped first. She was sure he hadn't let her go before the car came. She could see the blaze of the lamps and feel his grip slacken on her arm.

She wasn't sure. He couldn't have jumped. He couldn't have let go. Of course he hadn't. She had imagined it. She imagined all sorts of things.

If she could make them bad enough she would stop thinking about him; she would stop caring. She didn't want to care.

"Charlotte--when I die, that's where I'd like to be buried."

Coming back from Bourton market they had turned into the churchyard on the top of Stow-hill. The long path went straight between the stiff yew cones through the green field set with graves.

"On the top, so high up you could almost breathe in your coffin here."

"I don't want to breathe in my coffin. When I'm dead I'm dead, and when I'm alive I'm alive. Don't talk about dying."

"Why not? Think of the gorgeous risk of it--the supreme toss up. After all, death's the most thrilling thing that happens."

"Whose death?"

"My death."

"Don't _talk_ about it."

"Your death then."

"Oh, mine--"

"Our death, Jeanne."

He turned to her in the path. His mouth was hard now, but his eyes shone at her, smiling, suddenly warm, suddenly tender.

She knew herself then; she knew there was one cruelty, one brutality beyond bearing, John's death.

IV

John had gone away for a week.

If she could tire herself out, and not dream. In the slack days between hay-time and harvest she was never tired enough. She lay awake, teased by the rucking of the coa.r.s.e hot sheet under her back, and the sweat that kept on sliding between her skin and her night gown. And she dreamed.

She was waiting in the beech ring on the top of the field. Inside the belt of the tree trunks a belt of stones grew up, like the wall of the garden. It went higher and higher and a hole opened in it, a long slit.

She stuck her head through the hole to look out over the hills.

This was the watch-tower. She knew, as if she remembered it, that John had told her to go up and wait for him there; she was keeping watch for him on the tower.

Grey mist flowed over the field like water. He was down there in the field. If she went to him he would take her in his arms.

She was walking now on the highway to Bourton-on-the-Hill. At the dip after the turn shallow water came out of the gra.s.s borders and ran across the road, cold to her naked feet. She knew that something was happening to John. He had gone away and she had got to find him and bring him back. She had got to find the clear hill where the battles.h.i.+p sailed over the field.

Instead of the s.h.i.+p she found the Barrow Farm beeches. They stood in a thick ring round a clearing of grey gra.s.s and grey light. John was standing there with a woman. She turned and showed her sharp face, the colour of white clay, her long evil nose, her eyes tilted corner and the thin tail of her mouth, writhing. That was Miss Lister who had been in Gibson's office. She had John now.

Forms without faces, shrouded white women, larvae slipped from the black grooves of the beech trunks; they made a ring round him with their bodies, drew it in tighter and tighter. The grey light beat like a pulse with the mounting horror.

She cried out his name, and her voice sounded tragic and immense; sharp like a blade of lightning screaming up to the top of the sky. A black iron curtain crashed down before her and cut off the dream.

Gwinnie looked up over the crook of her knee from the boot she was lacing.

"You made no end of a row in your sleep, Sharlie."

She had dreamed about him again, the next night. He was walking with her on the road from the town to the Farm. By the lime kiln at the turn he disappeared. He had never been there, really.

She had gone out to look for him. The road kept on curling round like a snake, bringing her back and back to the white gate of the Farm.

When she got through the gate she stepped off the field on to the low bridge over a black ca.n.a.l. The long, sharp-pointed road cut straight as a d.y.k.e through the flat fields, between two lines of slender trees, tall poles with tufted tops.

She knew she was awake now because the light whitened and the wind moved in the tree tufts and the road felt hard under her feet. When she came to the village, to the long grey walls with narrow shutters, she knew John was there. He came down the street towards the ca.n.a.l bridge. A group of women and children walked with him, dressed in black. Dutch women. Dutch babies. She could see their overalls and high caps and large, upturned shoes very black and distinct in the white light. This was real.

They pointed their fingers and stared at her with secretive, inimical faces. Terror crept in over the street, subtle, drifting and penetrating like an odour.

John's face was happy and excited; that was how she knew him. His face was real, its happiness and excitement were real. But as he pa.s.sed her it changed; it turned on her with a look she didn't know. Eyes of hatred, eyes that repudiated and betrayed her.

The third night; the third dream.

She had lost John and was looking for him; walking a long time through a country she could no longer see or remember. She came out of blank s.p.a.ce to the river bridge and the red town. She could see the road switchbacking over the bridge and turning sharp and slanting up the river bank to the ramparts.

Red fortresses above the ramparts, a high red town above the fortresses, a thin red tower above the town. The whole thing looked dangerous and unsteady, as if any minute it would topple over. She knew John was there.

Something awful was happening to him, and he wanted her.

When she stepped on the bridge the river swelled and humped itself up to the arch. It flooded. The bridge walls made a channel for the gush. It curled over the bank and came curving down the slant road from the ramparts, heavy and clear, like melted gla.s.s.

She climbed up and up through the water and round behind the fortress to the street at the top. She could see the thin tower break and lean forward like a red crane above the houses. She had to get to the top before the street fell down. John was shut up in the last house. She ran under the tower as it fell.

The house stood still, straight and tall. John was lying in the dark room behind the closed shutters. He wanted her. She could hear him calling to her "Jeanne! Jeanne!" She couldn't see in. She couldn't open the door.

"Jeanne!"

The wall split off and leaned forward.

She woke suddenly to the tapping and splas.h.i.+ng of the rain.