The Sleeping Sphinx

Celia, or even thinking of trying any games against Celia'—his hands opened and shut—'then God help you. That’s just a little warning.'

Thorley, catching the expression of his eyes, stared back at him. Thorley's next remark sounded almost grotesque.

'You've—you've changed,' he complained.

'I’ve changed? What about yourself?'

'Changed?' Thorley was equally surprised. 'No, I think not. I'm still doing business at the same old stand. And if it comes to any—er—argument between us, we'll see who wins: the old maestro,' he tapped himself on the chest complacently 'or you.' Then his expression grew strained again. 'But I think you ought to know, for old friendship's sake, that you're doing me an injustice.'

'Am I? I wish to heaven I could think sol'

'Ifs true, Don.' Thorley hesitated. 'Do you want to hear the real reason why I don't want you to meet Celia yet? Can you take it?'

'Of course I can take it Well?'

'Weill Celia's practically forgotten you.'

It was the one thing which could knock the props out from under him. And it did. Thorley was sympathetic.

'Now let's face it, Don,' he said. He came over and put his hand on Holden's arm. 'At one time Celia was very much in love with you. You, as I understand it—I've only heard this through Margot—once started to make love to her, and then suddenly said you never wanted the subject mentioned again.' 'I was a blazing fool!'

'Well,' Thorley shrugged his shoulders, 'that’ s as it may be. I think you weren't, myself. The point is, you've given her plenty of time to forget it What happens if you turn up now?'

'Why should anything happen?'

'Celia's in a very dangerous mental state. Wait a minute! You don't seem to believe that But you can at least believe Margot’s death was a very great blow to her. She adored Margot You agree?'

He could not help admitting it 'Yes. Margot was always a kind of idol.'

'And how many times have you seen Celia since the beginning of the war?'

'Only twice, since 1940. The Glebes were sent wherever there was trouble going: Africa. Then, in '43, I was drafted for special training with Intelligence. Languages, you see. And .. .'

'Only twice, since 1940,' mocked Thorley, in a sympathetic voice. 'Celia isn't well, Don. Mammy Two (do you remember?) always said she'd been worried about her, ever since Celia was a child. I tell you straight, Don: if you turn up from the dead now, and reopen that old emotional business when she's almost forgotten it, I won't be responsible for the consequences. Can't you see that?'

'In a way. Yes.'

'Fortunately, as I told you, Celia isn't here this evening. But look at that door to the hall there! What do you think the effect would be, if Celia came back and suddenly saw you here now? If you have any feeling for her, Don—any feeling at all —you can't risk that Now can you?'

Holden pressed his hands to his forehead.

'But... what do you want me to do?'

'Go away,' answered Thorley firmly.

'Go away?'

'Go back down those balcony stairs,' Thorley pointed, 'the way you came. The way you came when Doris Locke and I thought you were a gh——' For some reason Thorley did not seem to like the word 'ghost' He stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the windows. 'Funny!' be said. 'I thought I heard somebody out there just now. But it wasn't. Never mind.'

He turned back, his hand on Holden's arm. .

'Go away, Don. After all, the whole thing is your fault. Celia wouldn't thank you for upsetting her by turning up again. You had your chance; and, for whatever reason, you bungled it'

'It was because ...'

'I know; it was because you were only making twopence-halfpenny a year; and I honor you for it. Still, you did rather hit her in the face. She's forgotten you now. Think of the disastrous consequences if . . .'

Again Thorley stopped dead. His hand dropped from Holden's arm. He was staring past Holden's shoulder, staring at the door to the hall, with such an expression that his companion involuntarily swung around.

And the door to the hall opened, and Celia came in.

CHAPTER IV

The door was in the upper right-hand comer of the room as you stood with your back to the windows. It opened inwards; Celia's hand was on the knob, and a dim light burned in the hall behind her. He afterward remembered that she had begun to speak, as though in explanation or warning to anybody who might be there, even while the door was opening.

'I think I left my handbag in here,' the well-remembered voice said rapidly. 'I'm going for a walk in the park, and . . .'

She saw Holden.

Then—silence.

All three of them stood as though paralyzed. In a sense this was true; Holden could not have spoken to save his life. He felt the light of the table lamp shining on his face, as though it were a physical heat; he felt himself caught there, unable to retreat even into darkness.

There was the flesh-and-blood Celia, after so many days and nights of the imagined one. And utterly unchanged. The broad forehead, the arched brows over gray dreaming eyes, the short straight nose, the lips a little quirked at one comer as though from looking wryly at the world, the smooth brown hair parted now on the left-hand side and drawn behind her ears to fall at the back of the neck, and—thank God!—the clear-glowing skin of health.

If memory plays tricks, we expect them to be poor tricks. In our hearts we, as cursers of hope, never expect a real meeting quite to live up to an imagined one. But for Holden it was the other way around. This was more; it was worse, as a dozen times more poignant. If only he hadn't wrecked it, hadn't hurt Celia, by this sudden . . .

Seconds passed. He would have said that minutes passed while Celia stood motionless, gripping the knob, slender in a white dress, without stockings and with red shoes, against the brown-painted door.

Then Celia spoke.

'They sent you on some kind of special military job,' she said. Her voice went into a strange unnatural key; she had to clear her throat several times before she got the voice level. But she made this as a simple statement 'They sent you on some kind of special job. That was why you couldn't see me or write to me.'

In an immense void he heard himself speaking.

'Who told you that?'

'Nobody told me,' Celia answered simply. A hundred memories seemed to be passing behind her eyes. 'As soon as I saw you, I just knew.'

Her face seemed to crumple up; she was going to cry.

'Hello, Don,' she said.

'Hello, Celia.'

'I—I was going over into the park,' said Celia; and suddenly looked away from him, out into the hall. He could see the line of her neck, the soft turn of the cheek, shining against the light there. 'Would—would you like to go with me?'

'Of course. Then you didn't believe I was d . . .'

'I believed it,' said Celia, as though trying carefully to define her terms. 'I believed it. And yet at the same time I—' She broke off. 'Oh, hurry, hurry! Please hurry!'

He went toward her, circling round the sofa and walking very carefully, because his knees were shaking. Also, in that unreal void, he had a wild idea that unless he walked carefully he might put his foot straight through the floor. Yet a certain memory whipped back at him.

'You said—into the park, Celia. You mean you weren't out this evening? You've been in the house all the time?' 'Yes, of ocourse. Why?'