a strange quality – something ridiculous and lovable – so that to laugh became a part of their tenderness.
When Juno laughed the process began like a child’s gurgle.
As for Titus he shouted his laughter.
It was the death-knell of false sentiment and of any cliche, or recognized behaviour. This was a thing of their own invention. A new compound.
A spasm caught hold of him. It sidled across his diaphragm and skidded through his entrails. It shot up like a rocket to the back of his throat; it radiated into separate turnings. It converged again, and capsized through him, cart-wheeled into a land of near-lunacy, where Juno joined him. What they were laughing at they had no idea, which is more shattering than a world of wit.
Titus, turning over with a shout, flung out his hand and a moment later found it resting upon Juno’s thigh, and suddenly his laughter left him, and hers also, so that she rose to her feet and when he had done so also they put their arms around one another and they wandered away to the doorway and up the stairs and along a corridor and into a room whose walls were filled with books and pictures, suffused with the light of the autumn sun.
There was a sense of peace in this remote room, with the long shafts of sunlight a-swim with motes. Without any form of untidiness, this library was strangely informal. There was the remoteness of a ship at sea – a removal from normal life about it, as though it had never been put together by carpenters and masons, but was a projection of Juno’s mind.
‘Why?’ said Titus.
‘Why what, my sweet?’
‘This unexpected room?’
‘You like it?’
‘Of course, but why the secrecy?’
‘Secrecy?’
‘I never knew it existed.’
‘It doesn’t really, not when it’s empty. It only comes to life when we are in it.’
‘Too glib, my sweet.’
‘Brute.’
‘Yes; but don’t look sad. Who lit the fire? And don’t say the goblins, will you?’
‘I will never mention goblins again. I lit it.’
‘How sure you are of me!’
‘Not really. I feel a nearness, that’s all. Something holds us together. In spite of our ages. In spite of everything.’
‘O, age doesn’t matter,’ said Titus, taking hold of her arms.
‘Thank you,’ said Juno. A wry little smile came to her lips and then withered away. Her sculptured head remained. The lovely room grew soft with evening light as Juno and Titus slid from their clothes, and, trembling, sank to the floor together and began to drown.
The firelight flickered and grew dim; danced and died again. Their bodies sent one shadow through the room. It swarmed across the carpet; climbed a wall of books, and shook with joy across the solemn ceiling.
FORTY-THREE
A long while later when the moon had risen and while Juno and Titus were asleep in each other’s arms by the dying fire, Muzzlehatch, in roguish mood, having found no answer to his knocking, had climbed the chestnut tree whose high branches brushed the library window, and had, at great risk to life and limb, made a lateral leap in the dark and had landed on the window-sill of Juno’s room, catching hold, as he did so, of the open frame.
More by luck than skill he had managed to keep his balance and in doing so had made no noise at all save for the swish of the returning leaves and a faint rattle of the window-sash.
For some while now, he had seen little of Juno. It is true that for a few days following the unforeseen twinge of heart, when he had watched her move away from him down the drive of her home, he had seen something of her; he had realized that the past can never be recaptured, even if he had wished it, and he turned his life away from her, as a man turns his back upon his own youth.
Why then this visitation late at night to his one-time love? Why was he standing on the sill, blocking out the moon and staring at the embers of the fire? Because he longed to talk. To talk like a torrent. To put into words the scores of strange ideas that had been clamouring for release; clamouring to set his tongue on fire. All day he had longed for it.
The morning, afternoon and evening had been spent in moving from cage to cage in his inordinate zoo.
But love them as he did, he was not with his animals tonight. He wanted something else. He wanted words, and in his wish, he realized as the sun went down, was the image of the only person in the wide world at the foot of whose bed he could sit; bolt upright, his head held very high, his jaw thrust forward, his face alight with an endless sequence of ideas. Who else but Juno?
He had thought he had had from her all that she had to give. They had grown tired of each other. They knew too much about each other; but now, quite unexpectedly, he needed her again. There were the stars to talk about, and the fishes of the sea. There were demons and there were the wisps of down that cling to the breasts of the seraphim. There were old clothes to ponder and terrible diseases. There were the flying missiles and the weird workings of the heart. There was
So Muzzlehatch, ignoring his ancient car, chose from his animals a great smelling llama; saddled it and cantered from his courtyard and away across the hills to Juno’s house, singing as he went.
He had no wish to disturb the other sleepers, but, as there was no reply to the pebbles he flung up at her window he was forced to knock upon the door. As this bore no results, and as he had no intention of bashing his
