He looked round him and sighed a little with relief to see no sign of disturbance. It was not a trap then, he thought. I must get her away from here this morning. In the middle of the room was the kitchen table on which the coffin had lain. Do not be afraid, old man, Andrews said under his breath, I will not touch her. I am going to save her from the others, that is all. He shivered a little. The morning air now that he had ceased to walk was cold. It seemed to him very possible that the room might hold a jealous, bitter and suspicious ghost. I don’t want any interference from spirits, he thought, and smiled wearily at his own superstition. The room and house were very still. Should he go up and wake her? He longed, only now he realised to the full with what passion and what impatience, to see her again. If only he had returned unsullied, a conqueror of himself for her. I will try again, I will try again, he thought, beating down his own self-mockery. I don’t care how often I fall. I will try again. For the second time within twenty-four hours and for the second time in three years he prayed. “O God, help me.” He turned hastily round. It was as though a warm draught had blown on to the back of his neck. He found himself again facing the table and the imagined, but disquieting, presence of a coffin. Don’t be afraid, old man, he implored. I am not here to make love. She would never look at me. I want to save her, that is all.
He shook himself a little, like a dog. He was becoming foolish. I will get breakfast, he thought, and surprise her. A row of cups were hanging above the sink. He took one down and then stood, the tips of his fingers caressing the edge, but his mind on the past, his eyes fixed to a key hole, his heart trembling as though at a saint. Then the small door which led to the upper floor opened and he looked up. “Is it you at last?” he said. His voice was hushed and trembling in the presence of a mystery. The room was gold with sunlight, but he had not noticed it till now.
Part III
X
Elizabeth stood on the bottom step of the stairs, her hand on the open door, her eyes sleepy and astonished. “You,” she said.
Andrews turned the cup round and round in his hands, embarrassed now, almost wordless. “I’ve come back,” he said.
She stepped down into the room and Andrews watched with fascinated eyes the swing of her gait, the manner in which she flung her chin up as she moved. “Oh, yes, I can see that,” she said with a slight smile. “Here, give me that cup. You’ll break it.”
Andrews put his hand with sudden resolution behind his back. “No,” he said, “I want this cup. This was the cup we both drank from.”
“That’s not the one,” Elizabeth answered quickly, and as Andrews gazed at her in astonishment, she twisted her lower lip between her teeth. “I remember that one,” she added, “because it had a chip out of the rim. Tell me—what are you doing here?”
“I’ve got news,” Andrews said. He spoke with reluctance. A great unwillingness to tell her swept over him. For when he had given her his news what possible excuse had he to stay?
“Will it wait till after breakfast?” she asked, and when he nodded she began with no more said to lay the table.
Only when they were seated did she speak again. “You must have been up early?” He grunted assent, afraid to hear the question which would bring out his news.
“Has anything happened since I’ve been away?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “nothing ever happens here.”
“The door was unbolted. Do you think that’s safe?”
“It was unbolted when you first came,” she replied, and watching him with candid eyes, “I did not want you to have a less warm welcome when you came back.”
He looked up sharply in a kind of poignant hope, but her candour repelled it. All her meaning seemed on the surface, none beneath it. “Did you know I would come back?”
She frowned a little as though puzzled. “But surely that was the understanding. We parted friends, didn’t we?”
“You are very generous.” Her voice for some reason made him bitter, but she did not notice his sarcasm. “I don’t understand you,” she answered. “You say very puzzling things.”
“Oh, I am not like you,” Andrews said. “I don’t know that I want to be. You are so clear, so terribly sane. I’m twisted.”
“Am I very clear?” she asked. She laid down her knife and, resting her chin on one hand, stared at him curiously across the table. “Could you tell, for instance, that I was anxious for you to return? It’s lonely here. When I came down the other morning I was sorry that you’d gone. I felt guilty. I shouldn’t have persuaded you to go to Lewes. I had no right to make you risk yourself. Do you forgive me?”
Andrews jumped up from the table and, walking over to the fireplace, turned his back on her. “You are laughing at me,” he said.
Elizabeth smiled. “You are twisted,” she said. “Why should you think that? No, we are friends.”
He turned round with scarlet face. “If you say that word again—” he threatened. Watching her white, puzzled, yet calm, face quietened him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have only had one friend and I betrayed him. I don’t want to betray you.”
“You will not betray me,” she said. “You left your knife.”
“I thought
