Andrews opened his eyes at the mention of hours and glanced at the window behind him. “I want to hear one more thing,” he said. “Say that you forgive me for bringing you into this mess.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “But if it wasn’t for me you’d never have gone to Lewes. Forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” Andrews said with a reluctant smile, “for making me do the only right thing I’ve ever done.”
They came across the floor to each other and for a while stood closely pressed together with no word said. Veil after veil of dusk was drawn across the room. A sudden creaking of the old table in the silence reminded them of evening oncoming. Andrews, whose whole attention had been fixed on memorizing the lines of Elizabeth’s face, the brow, the neck, the eyelashes, the chin, stepped back and turned with a nervous movement towards the window. “I never thought it would come so soon,” he said, and both knew that he meant the dark. His heart was beating with an unpleasant insistence and his legs were weak about the knees. “Why did we stay?” he asked with a sense of disillusionment, as though he had just discovered that his past courage was bravado merely.
“Are you afraid?” Elizabeth asked with reproach.
“No, no,” he protested. “It’s just this dusk. It came so suddenly. As though a hand had snuffed the light.” He walked backwards and forwards in the room. Magic was no bedfellow for danger, he thought. They could not lie together.
“I hate this waiting,” he said slowly. “I wish they’d come,” but inwardly he prayed desperately for courage and clutched the image of Elizabeth like a jewel to his heart. He saw that she was standing by the window looking out. He noted with surprise that her fingers were clenched fiercely upon her dress as though even upon her the waiting grew a strain.
He beat his hands together. “Of course there’s no use in worrying.” His voice broke nervously. “It’s early evening. They won’t come yet.” He saw her lean forward and press her face against the window pane. “Do you see anything?” he cried.
“No, nothing,” she said, fingers still clenched, but speaking softly as she would speak to a child fearing the dark.
“Then for God’s sake,” Andrews said irritably, “don’t make sudden movements.” It was extraordinary how consciousness of dark had robbed the room of magic, even of tenderness, and instead there was only fear and irritation. “We’ve been talking too long,” he said, “instead of keeping watch.”
With her back still turned Elizabeth said slowly, “Too long? I thought a lifetime would not be long enough.”
“I don’t mean that,” he protested. “Oh we’ll be lovers again soon, but now—we mustn’t waste time.”
She turned and regarded him with a kind of sorrowful tenderness. “Suppose we are wasting time now,” she said, “we’ve had such a few hours with each other. We can’t tell how many more we shall have. Let these men go hang. Speak to me, take no notice of the dark. The dark is made for lovers. Speak to me. Don’t listen or watch any longer.”
“You are mad,” Andrews said.
“You said I was sane.”
Andrews suddenly sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands. O God, he prayed silently, if you are God give me courage. Don’t let me start all over again by betraying her. I thought I’d won out of this cowardice at last.
Elizabeth left the window and came to his side. He felt her fingers on his hair, twisting it, pulling it this way and that in a whimsical fashion. He heard her laugh. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s not worth it.”
He looked up at her and said in a voice trembling on the brink of complete uncontrol, “I’m afraid. I’m a coward.”
“The old story,” she said mockingly, but she was watching him with half-veiled nervous anxiety. “I know it’s untrue.”
“It’s not. It’s not.”
“Lewes—the knife—your warning,” she reminded him.
He brushed them on one side. “I’m afraid, terribly afraid. Suppose I fail you when they come, run away?”
“You won’t. I tell you you are no coward. It’s a delusion you’ve been living under.” She put her fingers under his chin and forced it up, so that she could watch his eyes. “You’ve proved your courage three times to me,” she said slowly. “You’ll do it once more and then you’ll know and be at peace. You’ve wanted peace. That’s the way to it. Dear silly fool, you’ve worried always about your courage. That’s what was wrong.”
He shook his head, but she was obstinate, obstinate as though she were defending something on which she had put the whole of her own faith, and with a trace of fear, as though she were afraid to have it proved that she was mistaken. A sudden stiffening of her body frightened him. “Did you hear something?” he whispered and the trembling in his voice reached his own consciousness and showed him in a flash of despair the gap which separated two moments divided by but minutes in time—the magic seconds when they had stood together as lovers, brave and equal, and now, fear, humiliation, inequality.
“No,” Elizabeth said, “I heard nothing. I only want to see how dark it gets. We must light a candle soon.” She walked to the window and glanced outside. Then she turned quickly. Her fingers, but Andrews did not notice them, were clenched. “Listen,” she said. “We shall need water before tonight. You must go with a pail now before it is dangerous to the well. The pail is in the corner there. Bring it.” Her voice was brisk and commanding and Andrews obeyed.
At the door, watching the
