LITMIR.BIZ

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of the pillows with one hand under her cheek, Mrs Pargiter moaned slightly as if she wandered in a world where even in sleep little obstacles lay across her path. Her face was pouched and heavy; the skin was stained with brown patches; the hair which had been red was now white, save that there were queer yellow patches in it, as if some locks had been dipped in the yolk of an egg. Bare of all rings save her wedding ring, her fingers alone seemed to indicate that she had entered the private world of illness. But she did not look as if she were dying; she looked as if she might go on existing in this borderland between life and death for ever. Delia could see no change in her. As she sat down, everything seemed to be at full tide in her. A long narrow glass by the bedside reflected a section of the sky; it was dazzled at the moment with red light. The dressing-table was illuminated. The light struck on silver bottles and on glass bottles, all set out in the perfect order of things that are not used. At this hour of the evening the sickroom had an unreal cleanliness, quiet and order. There by the bedside was a little table set with spectacles, prayer-book and a vase of lilies of the valley. The flowers, too, looked unreal. There was nothing to do but to look.

      She stared at the yellow drawing of her grandfather with the high light on his nose; at the photograph of her Uncle Horace in his uniform; at the lean and twisted figure on the crucifix to the right.

      “But you don’t believe in it!” she said savagely, looking at her mother sunk in sleep. “You don’t want to die.”

      She longed for her to die. There she was—soft, decayed but everlasting, lying in the cleft of the pillows, an obstacle, a prevention, an impediment to all life. She tried to whip up some feeling of affection, of pity. For instance, that summer, she told herself, at Sidmouth, when she called me up the garden steps…. But the scene melted as she tried to look at it. There was the other scene of course—the man in the frock-coat with the flower in his button-hole. But she had sworn not to think of that till bedtime. What then should she think of? Grandpapa with the white light on his nose? The prayer-book? The lilies of the valley? Or the looking-glass? The sun had gone in; the glass was dim and reflected now only a dun-coloured patch of sky. She could resist no longer.

      “Wearing a white flower in his button-hole,” she began. It required a few minutes’ preparation. There must be a hall; banks of palms; a floor beneath them crowded with people’s heads. The charm was beginning to work. She became permeated with delicious starts of flattering and exciting emotion. She was on the platform; there was a huge audience; everybody was shouting, waving handkerchiefs, hissing and whistling. Then she stood up. She rose all in white in the middle of the platform; Mr Parnell was by her side.

      “I am speaking in the cause of Liberty,” she began, throwing out her hands, “in the cause of Justice….” They were standing side by side. He was very pale but his dark eyes glowed. He turned to her and whispered….

      There was a sudden interruption. Mrs Pargiter had raised herself on her pillows.

      “Where am I?” she cried. She was frightened and bewildered, as she often was on waking. She raised her hand; she seemed to appeal for help. “Where am I?” she repeated. For a moment Delia was bewildered too. Where was she?

      “Here, Mama! Here!” she said wildly. “Here, in your own room.”

      She laid her hand on the counterpane. Mrs Pargiter clutched it nervously. She looked round the room as if she were seeking someone. She did not seem to recognise her daughter.

      “What’s happening?” she said. “Where am I?” Then she looked at Delia and remembered.

      “Oh, Delia—I was dreaming,” she murmured half apologetically. She lay for a moment looking out of the window. The lamps were being lit, and a sudden soft spurt of light came in the street outside.

      “It’s been a fine day…” she hesitated, “for…” It seemed as if she could not remember what for.

      “A lovely day, yes, Mama,” Delia repeated with mechanical cheerfulness.

      “… for…” her mother tried again.

      What day was it? Delia could not remember.

      “… for your Uncle Digby’s birthday,” Mrs Pargiter at last brought out.

      “Tell him from me—tell him how very glad I am.”

      “I’ll tell him,” said Delia. She had forgotten her uncle’s birthday; but her mother was punctilious about such things.

      “Aunt Eugénie—” she began.

      But her mother was staring at the dressing-table. Some gleam from the lamp outside made the white cloth look extremely white.

      “Another clean table-cloth!” Mrs Pargiter murmured peevishly. “The expense, Delia, the expense—that’s what worries me—”

      “That’s all right, Mama,” said Delia dully. Her eyes were fixed upon her grandfather’s portrait; why, she wondered, had the artist put a dab of white chalk on the tip of his nose?

      “Aunt Eugénie brought you some flowers,” she said.

      For some reason Mrs Pargiter seemed pleased. Her eyes rested contemplatively on the clean table-cloth that had suggested the washing bill a moment before.

      “Aunt Eugénie…” she said. “How well I remember”—her voice seemed to get fuller and rounder—“the day the engagement was announced. We were all of us in the garden; there came a letter.” She paused. “There came a letter,” she repeated. Then she said no more for a time. She seemed to be going over some memory.

      “The dear little boy died, but save for that…” She stopped again. She seemed weaker tonight, Delia thought; and a start of joy ran through her. Her sentences were more broken than usual. What little boy had died? She began counting the twists on the counterpane as she waited for her mother to speak.

      “You know all the cousins used to come together in the summer,” her mother suddenly resumed. “There was your Uncle Horace….”

      “The one with the glass eye,” said Delia.

      “Yes. He hurt his eye on the rocking-horse. The aunts thought so much of Horace. They would say…” Here there was a long pause. She seemed to be fumbling to find the exact words.

      “When Horace comes … remember to ask him about the dining-room door.”

      A curious amusement seemed to fill Mrs Pargiter. She actually laughed. She must be thinking of some long-past family joke, Delia supposed, as she watched the smile flicker and fade away. There was complete silence. Her mother lay with her eyes shut; the hand with the single ring, the white and wasted hand, lay on the counterpane. In the silence they could hear a coal click in the grate and a street hawker droning down the road. Mrs Pargiter said no more. She lay perfectly still. Then she sighed profoundly.

      The door opened, and the nurse came in. Delia rose and went out. Where am I? she asked herself, staring at a white jug stained pink by the setting sun. For a moment she seemed to be in some borderland between life and death. Where am I? she repeated, looking at the pink jug, for it all looked strange. Then she heard water rushing and feet thudding on the floor above.

      “Here you are, Rosie,” said Nurse, looking up from the wheel of the sewing-machine as Rose came in.

      The nursery was brightly lit; there was an unshaded lamp on the table. Mrs C., who came every week with the washing, was sitting in the armchair with a cup in her hand. “Go and get your sewing, there’s a good girl,” said Nurse as Rose shook hands with Mrs C., “or you’ll never be done in time for Papa’s birthday,” she added, clearing a space on the nursery table.

      Rose opened the table drawer and took out the boot-bag that she was embroidering with a design of blue and red flowers for her father’s birthday. There were still several clusters of little pencilled roses to be worked. She spread it on the table and examined it as Nurse resumed what she was saying to Mrs C. about Mrs Kirby’s daughter. But Rose did not listen.

      Then I shall go by myself, she decided, straightening

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