Read Online Encounters: stories by Elizabeth Bowen, Robarts - University of Toronto - Free Book Online Page A
Ads: Link
step in a triumphal progress. Every echo from the tiles and naked boards derided and denied the memory of that small brick villa where he and Cicely had been born, where their mother's wedded life had begun and ended; that villa now empty and denuded, whose furniture looked so meagre in this spaciousness and height.
He carried a candlestick in either hand and raised them high above his head as he
passed from room to room, peering round him into corners, looking up to moulded cornices and ceilings.
Standing in the big front bedroom he saw himself reflected in the mirrored doors of a vast portentous wardrobe, and beamed back at his beaming, curiously-shadowed face. Behind him he saw Cicely seat herself on the edge of the wire mattress, and place her candle carefully beside her on the floor. The mahogany bedroom suite loomed up round them out of the shadows. She sensed his radiant satisfaction with relief.
"It is 2l lovely house,"she said."Oh, Herbert, I do hope you're going to be happy!"
"I hope we both are,"he amended kindly."We must have some people staying. Cicely. The Jenkins, and that lot. Entertain a bit— after all, my dear girl, we can afford it now!"
He was glad when she did not seem to realise how their circumstances had bettered—it gave him the opportunity for emphatic reminders.
They passed out on to the landing, and
stood looking down into the depths of the well-staircase.
"I'm sure mother did want us both to be happy,"said Cicely, peering over the banisters. Herbert felt eerily as though she were deferring to the opinion of some unseen presence below them in the darkness.
"Of course she wished us the best, poor mother."He clattered a little ostentatiously past her down the stairs.
"She would have loved this house!"Her voice came softly after him, and he heard her limp hand slithering along the banister-rail.
"Damn the gas-man,"he muttered, feeling his way across the hall, where his candle-flames writhed and flickered in a draught. It was enough to give anyone the creeps, thus groping through an echoing, deserted house with a ghost-ridden, lackadaisical woman trailing at his heels. If only they'd had the gas on.
Cicely was a fool: he'd teach her!
At the root of his malaise was a suspicion that the house was sneering at him; that as he repudiated the small brick villa so the
house repudiated him. That Cicely and the house had made a pact against him, shutting him out.
He was no bourgeois and no parvenu. He, Herbert Pilkington, was good enough for any house bought with his own well-earned money. He pushed savagely against the panels of the drawing-room door.
This was the largest room in the house. A pale light fell across the floor from the scoops of two great bow-windows, and there was a glimmer in the mirrors—fixtures— panelling the walls.
Herbert put down his candles and stood back in admiration.
"Next year,"he said,"we will buy a grand piano; it would look well there, slanting out from that corner."
"The shutters—we ought to shut the shutters."Fussily he wrestled with the catches. For all his middle-aged precision he was like a child delirious over some new toy.
"It needs children; it's a room for children,"said Cicely, when the clatter had subsided.
Something in her tone filled him with a sense of impropriety. She was gripping the edges of the chimney-piece and staring down into the grate. Her knuckles stood out white and strained.
"Herbert, Richard Evans wrote to me again yesterday. To-day I answered him. I—I am going to be married."
Sitting on the Chesterfield, Herbert scrutinised his boots. He heard his voice say:
"Who is going to see about the furniture?"
His mind grappled with something immeasurably far away.
Cicely repeated,"I am going to be married."
Suddenly it flashed across him: he was full of angry light.
"Married!"he shouted,"married—you!"
"I thought it was too late,"she whispered,"till quite lately. Then, when mother went, everything was broken up; this
He carried a candlestick in either hand and raised them high above his head as he
passed from room to room, peering round him into corners, looking up to moulded cornices and ceilings.
Standing in the big front bedroom he saw himself reflected in the mirrored doors of a vast portentous wardrobe, and beamed back at his beaming, curiously-shadowed face. Behind him he saw Cicely seat herself on the edge of the wire mattress, and place her candle carefully beside her on the floor. The mahogany bedroom suite loomed up round them out of the shadows. She sensed his radiant satisfaction with relief.
"It is 2l lovely house,"she said."Oh, Herbert, I do hope you're going to be happy!"
"I hope we both are,"he amended kindly."We must have some people staying. Cicely. The Jenkins, and that lot. Entertain a bit— after all, my dear girl, we can afford it now!"
He was glad when she did not seem to realise how their circumstances had bettered—it gave him the opportunity for emphatic reminders.
They passed out on to the landing, and
stood looking down into the depths of the well-staircase.
"I'm sure mother did want us both to be happy,"said Cicely, peering over the banisters. Herbert felt eerily as though she were deferring to the opinion of some unseen presence below them in the darkness.
"Of course she wished us the best, poor mother."He clattered a little ostentatiously past her down the stairs.
"She would have loved this house!"Her voice came softly after him, and he heard her limp hand slithering along the banister-rail.
"Damn the gas-man,"he muttered, feeling his way across the hall, where his candle-flames writhed and flickered in a draught. It was enough to give anyone the creeps, thus groping through an echoing, deserted house with a ghost-ridden, lackadaisical woman trailing at his heels. If only they'd had the gas on.
Cicely was a fool: he'd teach her!
At the root of his malaise was a suspicion that the house was sneering at him; that as he repudiated the small brick villa so the
house repudiated him. That Cicely and the house had made a pact against him, shutting him out.
He was no bourgeois and no parvenu. He, Herbert Pilkington, was good enough for any house bought with his own well-earned money. He pushed savagely against the panels of the drawing-room door.
This was the largest room in the house. A pale light fell across the floor from the scoops of two great bow-windows, and there was a glimmer in the mirrors—fixtures— panelling the walls.
Herbert put down his candles and stood back in admiration.
"Next year,"he said,"we will buy a grand piano; it would look well there, slanting out from that corner."
"The shutters—we ought to shut the shutters."Fussily he wrestled with the catches. For all his middle-aged precision he was like a child delirious over some new toy.
"It needs children; it's a room for children,"said Cicely, when the clatter had subsided.
Something in her tone filled him with a sense of impropriety. She was gripping the edges of the chimney-piece and staring down into the grate. Her knuckles stood out white and strained.
"Herbert, Richard Evans wrote to me again yesterday. To-day I answered him. I—I am going to be married."
Sitting on the Chesterfield, Herbert scrutinised his boots. He heard his voice say:
"Who is going to see about the furniture?"
His mind grappled with something immeasurably far away.
Cicely repeated,"I am going to be married."
Suddenly it flashed across him: he was full of angry light.
"Married!"he shouted,"married—you!"
"I thought it was too late,"she whispered,"till quite lately. Then, when mother went, everything was broken up; this
Similar Books
