Read Online Poison In The Pen by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
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assure you that I shall get anything you may suppose me to have deserved. And if you are thinking of yourself—well, I should recommend you to think again.”
She did not feel that she had anything to think with. She put her face down into her hands and leaned forward until they rested upon her knees. She had no thoughts, only feelings. In retrospect, the lonely ache when he was gone. Now and here, Jason so near that her least, slightest movement would bridge the space between them. In the future beyond these passing hours of darkness a nothingness, a blank in which she could conceive of neither thought nor action.
Time went by. He did not move or speak, but if they had been locked in one another’s arms, she could not have been more aware of him. In the end she lifted her face a little and said in a weeping voice,
“Why—did—you—go?”
He gave that half shrug again. This time it was followed by words.
“I had something to attend to.”
She went on as if he had not spoken, or as if she had not heard.
“You came to meet me here. You didn’t say that you were going away. You kissed me, and you went. You didn’t write. You didn’t come—” Her breath failed and the words with it.
He said, “It was tough for you. I always told you loving me was going to be tough.”
She got her breath again.
“People can’t just go away like that. And come back. And find that nothing has changed. If you are too unhappy you just can’t go on.”
He said without impatience,
“You knew I came, and went, and didn’t write.”
Again she went on as if she hadn’t heard him.
“I got a letter. Someone wrote it, but I don’t know who it was. It said there was a girl, and that was why you went.”
“I can’t tell you why I went. There wasn’t any girl.”
“There were three letters altogether. They were—nasty— as if slugs had crawled on them.”
“Anonymous letters are apt to be like that. You could have had more sense than to believe what they said.”
Her head came up.
“I didn’t! Jason, I didn’t! But the slime got on to everything.”
He said with something that wasn’t quite a laugh,
“Try yellow soap and a nailbrush!” Then, with an abrupt change of manner, “Val, wake up! You can either believe in me or not believe in me. Whichever you do, you’ve got to do it blind. Your anonymous letter writer didn’t produce any evidence, I take it. Well, I’m not producing any either. If you believe in me you believe in me, and that’s that. If you don’t believe in me, we make a clean cut here and now, and I wish you joy. As I remarked a little while ago, it is your wedding day. Or not, as the case may be.”
She cried out at that.
“You haven’t even said you love me!”
His voice did not change.
“If you don’t know that without being told, there aren’t enough words in the language to get it across.”
And all at once she did know it—deeply, surely, and with certainty. He had gone away and said nothing. He had come back, and he would say nothing still. Perhaps the same thing would happen again. Perhaps it would happen many times. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to bear it—she didn’t know. But she did know that he loved her, and because of that she couldn’t marry Gilbert Earle. She got to her feet and stood there below the wooden steps, looking up at him as he rose too.
“I must go. It won’t be my wedding day, Jason.”
She went down the hill alone, as she had come. She knew what she was going to do, but she did not in the least know how she was going to do it. They had parted without a kiss, without a touch. What was between them was much stronger than kisses or the touch of the flesh, and she had so nearly betrayed it. She was like the sleep-walker who awakes suddenly on the sheer edge of some frightful fall. Another step and her foot would have been over the edge. The space of a few hours and she would have been Gilbert’s wife. Everything in her shuddered, and then
She did not feel that she had anything to think with. She put her face down into her hands and leaned forward until they rested upon her knees. She had no thoughts, only feelings. In retrospect, the lonely ache when he was gone. Now and here, Jason so near that her least, slightest movement would bridge the space between them. In the future beyond these passing hours of darkness a nothingness, a blank in which she could conceive of neither thought nor action.
Time went by. He did not move or speak, but if they had been locked in one another’s arms, she could not have been more aware of him. In the end she lifted her face a little and said in a weeping voice,
“Why—did—you—go?”
He gave that half shrug again. This time it was followed by words.
“I had something to attend to.”
She went on as if he had not spoken, or as if she had not heard.
“You came to meet me here. You didn’t say that you were going away. You kissed me, and you went. You didn’t write. You didn’t come—” Her breath failed and the words with it.
He said, “It was tough for you. I always told you loving me was going to be tough.”
She got her breath again.
“People can’t just go away like that. And come back. And find that nothing has changed. If you are too unhappy you just can’t go on.”
He said without impatience,
“You knew I came, and went, and didn’t write.”
Again she went on as if she hadn’t heard him.
“I got a letter. Someone wrote it, but I don’t know who it was. It said there was a girl, and that was why you went.”
“I can’t tell you why I went. There wasn’t any girl.”
“There were three letters altogether. They were—nasty— as if slugs had crawled on them.”
“Anonymous letters are apt to be like that. You could have had more sense than to believe what they said.”
Her head came up.
“I didn’t! Jason, I didn’t! But the slime got on to everything.”
He said with something that wasn’t quite a laugh,
“Try yellow soap and a nailbrush!” Then, with an abrupt change of manner, “Val, wake up! You can either believe in me or not believe in me. Whichever you do, you’ve got to do it blind. Your anonymous letter writer didn’t produce any evidence, I take it. Well, I’m not producing any either. If you believe in me you believe in me, and that’s that. If you don’t believe in me, we make a clean cut here and now, and I wish you joy. As I remarked a little while ago, it is your wedding day. Or not, as the case may be.”
She cried out at that.
“You haven’t even said you love me!”
His voice did not change.
“If you don’t know that without being told, there aren’t enough words in the language to get it across.”
And all at once she did know it—deeply, surely, and with certainty. He had gone away and said nothing. He had come back, and he would say nothing still. Perhaps the same thing would happen again. Perhaps it would happen many times. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to bear it—she didn’t know. But she did know that he loved her, and because of that she couldn’t marry Gilbert Earle. She got to her feet and stood there below the wooden steps, looking up at him as he rose too.
“I must go. It won’t be my wedding day, Jason.”
She went down the hill alone, as she had come. She knew what she was going to do, but she did not in the least know how she was going to do it. They had parted without a kiss, without a touch. What was between them was much stronger than kisses or the touch of the flesh, and she had so nearly betrayed it. She was like the sleep-walker who awakes suddenly on the sheer edge of some frightful fall. Another step and her foot would have been over the edge. The space of a few hours and she would have been Gilbert’s wife. Everything in her shuddered, and then
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