So was the promise.
They wanted to make him lose the fight, wanted him to talk to her, and he’d be damned if he would let them win. They could try as much as they liked, but-
He started.
“It’s all right, I’m with you,” she said.
He wasn’t thinking about her, now, but the idea which had come suddenly. It made him want to laugh, and he hadn’t felt like laughing since the first morning he had seen her. The next stage wouldn’t be reached until he had talked, until “they” thought he had succumbed.
“Just tell me——”
He shook off her hand, sat up sharply and pushed her away.
“Mr. King——”
“Get out! Get away. I hate the sight of you!”
“If you’ll only——”
“Get out!” He pushed her again, and then suddenly raised his hands and clutched her neck. He didn’t hold tightly, but enough to scare her. She called sharply “Come in!” He was still clutching her neck when the door opened and two men sped into the room. One held his wrists and forced his hands from her neck, the other helped the girl from the bed. Then they went out and left him alone.
He felt cool, now—cool and more in command of himself because the cloying helplessness had eased a little. He had a plan of campaign. Three days had sapped his energy and dulled his mind, making it soggy, filling it with one obsession—and he hadn’t seen the obvious, that nothing further would happen until he had done what she wanted him to do—talked freely.
He got up and went to the window.
There were stars, but it was very dark. He went back to bed and closed his eyes, and felt rested. He waited, and waiting was an agony in itself. Judging time was almost impossible, but before he tried again he must wait. It wouldn’t work unless he waited.
He wanted a cigarette, but the only time he was allowed to smoke was when the girl or the barber-waiter were with him—which meant that, ostensibly, they were afraid he would set fire to the room. Everything they did was done to convince him that he was a dangerous lunatic.
At last he decided that he had waited long enough. He went back to bed—and began to shout.
Nothing happened.
He screamed again.
Was he losing his reason? Could a sane man lie here and shout like that, in an otherwise empty room, with no one to hear him ?
The light came on.
Marion stood in the doorway, smiling, calm. The light was just above her head, and her face was framed in that wispy auburn. She closed the door gently.
“Did it come again?”
“I—I can’t stand it.” He licked his lips, and wondered whether he appeared frantic enough to be convincing. Apparently he did, because she went to damp the sponge again, came back and bathed his forehead, face, and hands.
She lay down beside him.
“Tell me,” she said.
“It’s—so foul. Foul.” He made his voice break. — “Yes, it must be, but don’t worry—I’m used to hearing all kinds of strange stories. The nightmares will stop when you’ve talked about it.”
He told her the simple truth of what he had seen in Copse Cottage. His voice kept breaking, twice he stopped and turned his head away from her, his body becoming rigid; and each time she rested a hand on his arm and waited, until he went on again hoarsely.
Strangely, he felt easier in his mind.
She put an arm round his shoulders and her face was very close to his.
“Don’t worry,” she said very quietly. “Just go to sleep.”
“What—what time is it?”
“It’s the middle of the night. Don’t worry, just go to sleep. You won’t dream.”
* * * *
He didn’t dream.
* * * *
It was full daylight when he woke, and the sun was shining. He felt more rested and calmer than he had for three days—now nearly four. He lay for a while, looking at the sun shining into a corner of the room, then got up and went to look into the garden. The grass smiled, and the daffodils’ heads were raised; the scene was beautiful and as quiet as his mind. He didn’t ask himself whether he had succeeded in doing what he had set out to do. He knew that he had; and that although he might have to pretend again, this part of the ordeal would soon be over. Marion brought him his breakfast. The man with the white jacket and the mournful face shaved him.
