She found the cottage untenanted. The maid was out and wouldn’t be back till a little before bedtime. The silence in the empty rooms had a quality of crystalline and musical transparency; the solitude seemed friendly and kind. When she moved about the house, she walked on tiptoe, as though she were afraid of waking a sleeping child.
Marjorie made herself a cup of tea, sipped, ate a biscuit, lighted a cigarette. The flavour of the food and drink, the aroma of the tobacco seemed peculiarly delicious and somehow novel. It was as if she had discovered them for the first time.
She turned the armchair so that it faced the window and sat there looking out over the valley toward the bright hills with their background of storm. She remembered a day like this when they were living in their cottage in Berkshire. Sunshine the brighter for being so precarious in the midst of darkness; a shining and transfigured earth. Walter and she had sat together at the open window. He had loved her then. And yet she was happier now, much happier. She regretted nothing of what had happened in the interval. The suffering had been necessary. It was the cloud that enhanced the shining of her present felicity. A dark cloud, but how remote now, how curiously irrelevant! And that other happy brightness before the coming of the cloud—that too was tiny and far away, like an image in a curved mirror. Poor Walter! she thought, and remotely she was sorry for him. Pursuing happiness, he had made himself miserable. Happiness is a byproduct, Mrs. Quarles had said. It was true. “Happiness, happiness.” Marjorie repeated the word to herself. Against the black vapours the hills were like emerald and green gold. Happiness and beauty and goodness. “ ‘The peace of God,’ ” she whispered, “ ‘the peace of God that passeth all understanding.’ Peace, peace, peace …”
She felt as though she were melting into that green and golden tranquillity, sinking and being absorbed into it, dissolving out of separateness into union: stillness flowed into stillness, the silence without became one with the silence within her. The shaken and turbid liquor of existence grew gradually calm and all that had made it opaque—all the noise and uproar of the world, all the personal anxieties and desires and feelings—began to settle like a sediment, fell slowly, slowly and noiselessly, out of sight. The turbid liquor became clearer and clearer, more and more translucent. Behind that gradually vanishing mist was reality, was God. It was a slow, progressive revelation. “Peace, peace,” she whispered to herself; and the last faint ripples died away from the surface of life, the opacities churned up by the agitation of living dropped away through the utter calm. “Peace, peace.” She had no desires, no more preoccupations. The liquor which had been turbid was now quite clear, clearer than crystal, more diaphanous than air; the mist had vanished and the unveiled reality was a wonderful emptiness, was nothing. Nothing—the only perfection, the only absolute. Infinite and eternal nothing. The gradual revelation was now complete.
Marjorie was roused by the click of the front door latch and the sound of footsteps in the passage. Reluctantly and with a kind of pain, she rose from the depths of divine vacancy; her soul swam up again to the surface of consciousness. The sunlight on the hills had deepened its colour, the clouds had lifted and the sky was a pale greenish blue, like water. It was almost evening. Her limbs felt stiff. She must have been sitting there for hours.
“Walter?” she called questioningly to the source of the noises in the passage.
The voice in which he answered was dead and flat. “Why is he so unhappy?” she wondered at the sound of it, but wondered from a great distance and with a kind of faraway resentment. She resented his disturbing and interrupting presence, his very existence. He entered the room and she saw that his face was pale, his eyes darkly ringed.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, almost against her will. The nearer she came to Walter, the farther she moved from the marvellous nothingness of God. “You don’t look at all well.”
“It’s nothing,” he answered. “Rather tired, that’s all.” Coming down in the train he had read and reread Lucy’s letter, till he almost knew it by heart. His imagination had supplemented the words. He knew that sordid little room in the hôtel meublé; he had seen the Italian’s brown body and her whiteness, and the man’s clinched teeth and his face like the face of a tortured Marsyas, and Lucy’s own face with that expression he knew, that look of grave and attentive suffering, as though the agonizing pleasure were a profound and difficult truth only to be grasped by intense concentration …
Ah well, Marjorie was thinking, he had said it was nothing; that was all right; she needn’t worry any further. “Poor Walter!” she said aloud, and smiled at him with a pitying tenderness. He wasn’t going to make any demands on her attention or her feelings; she resented him no longer. “Poor Walter!”
Walter looked at her for a moment, then turned away. He didn’t want pity. Not that sort of superior angel’s pity, at any rate, and not from Marjorie. He had accepted pity from her once. The memory of the occasion made his whole flesh creep with shame. Never again. He walked away.
Marjorie heard his feet on the stairs and the banging of a door.
“All the same,” she thought, reluctantly solicitous, “there is something wrong. Something has made him specially miserable. Perhaps I ought to go up and see what he’s doing.”
But she didn’t go. She sat where she was, quite still, deliberately forgetting him. The little sediment that Walter’s coming had stirred up in her quickly settled again. Through
