Read Online To the North by Elizabeth Bowen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Bowen
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once wished he had not written.
“A letter has come for you, Emmeline,” said Lady Waters, appearing.
“Yes, Georgina.”
“I see you have found it.”
Not replying to this observation, Emmeline went on upstairs. Though Lady Waters naturally had not examined the letter, she had seen from across the hall that the vigorous handwriting was unfamiliar, and wondered what stranger could be in close enough touch with Emmeline to know where she was for two days. It was quite simple: Markie, knowing that Emmeline was to be with the Waters somewhere in Gloucestershire, had looked up Sir Robert in Who’s Who .
He wrote:
“Dear Emmeline,—As Wednesday does not suit you, what about Friday? I can put something else off: we must not let this fall through. So please do wear yellow and do not be late again. I’m sorry you found me tiresome the other night, though you cannot expect me to agree with you. Had that never happened before? It is quite usual. And really there did not seem to be much to say; you do rather dispose of any little thing one brings up. However, no doubt we shall find more to say later on.
“If it would restore confidence, we will go and dance somewhere on Friday, instead. Or you can tell me more about trains —you did not seem to think much of my books. Anything you like. I do miss you: it is that funny look in your eyes, like a foal coming up wind to inspect one. I would do anything to amuse you, but the fact is you are so dazzlingly beautiful I really don’t care if you’re amused or not.
“Don’t be late on Friday; there’s never enough time. And don’t put off, like last week, or I shall come round and fetch you. Cecilia would be amazed. How nice she is; I’m so glad I talked to her in the train. Remember me to your aunt—or cousin?—who said I must be an extrovert.
“Yours, “Markie.
“P.S.—Friday: 8.15.”
Emmeline pushed this bumptious letter into a drawer, but still did not feel quite alone. It was not in her nature to shut a drawer violently: an edge of the blue envelope still stuck out. Her room was full of late light that, reflected through the big windows up from the lawn, filled the mirrors, struck on the polished bed-end’s mahogany whorls and blinded a print of calm ruins hanging over the mantelpiece. Emmeline, as though someone had touched her, was confused by a curious pleasure and trepidation. She heard Markie’s voice and confronted his sceptical eyes, the eyebrows above them twitching up in a question: her faculties stood quite still. Seeing herself in the mirror she turned away, dreading the touch of a thought, even her own. She received from the glowing walls of her room an impression of space, of a vast moment.
This impact of Markie upon her was disproportionate with her life. No one had troubled her, something in her had forbidden anything but indirectness and delicacy. A splinter of ice in the heart is bombed out rather than thawed out. At her desk in the window she wrote back quickly, before reflection could intervene:
“Dear Markie,—Yes, I can come on Friday, thank you, though it seems a pity you should have to put something off. I will try to be punctual, though we are kept very late at the office just now. I do not mind if we dance or not. I am sorry you thought me unreasonable; I suppose other people are often surprising.
“I can leave my car at the garage just round your corner so you need not call for me. But why should Cecilia be ‘amazed’?
“Yours,
“Emmeline.”
Remembering that this letter could not leave here till Monday, and that it would be quicker to take it with her to London, she slipped it into the drawer beside Markie’s and, at dinner, thought of their odd companionship among her gloves and handkerchiefs.
Cecilia, though she had trouble enough with her friends, never expected anyone to act out of character. She felt so certain Emmeline would think Markie awful that she had mentioned the prejudice to her aunt as a fait
“A letter has come for you, Emmeline,” said Lady Waters, appearing.
“Yes, Georgina.”
“I see you have found it.”
Not replying to this observation, Emmeline went on upstairs. Though Lady Waters naturally had not examined the letter, she had seen from across the hall that the vigorous handwriting was unfamiliar, and wondered what stranger could be in close enough touch with Emmeline to know where she was for two days. It was quite simple: Markie, knowing that Emmeline was to be with the Waters somewhere in Gloucestershire, had looked up Sir Robert in Who’s Who .
He wrote:
“Dear Emmeline,—As Wednesday does not suit you, what about Friday? I can put something else off: we must not let this fall through. So please do wear yellow and do not be late again. I’m sorry you found me tiresome the other night, though you cannot expect me to agree with you. Had that never happened before? It is quite usual. And really there did not seem to be much to say; you do rather dispose of any little thing one brings up. However, no doubt we shall find more to say later on.
“If it would restore confidence, we will go and dance somewhere on Friday, instead. Or you can tell me more about trains —you did not seem to think much of my books. Anything you like. I do miss you: it is that funny look in your eyes, like a foal coming up wind to inspect one. I would do anything to amuse you, but the fact is you are so dazzlingly beautiful I really don’t care if you’re amused or not.
“Don’t be late on Friday; there’s never enough time. And don’t put off, like last week, or I shall come round and fetch you. Cecilia would be amazed. How nice she is; I’m so glad I talked to her in the train. Remember me to your aunt—or cousin?—who said I must be an extrovert.
“Yours, “Markie.
“P.S.—Friday: 8.15.”
Emmeline pushed this bumptious letter into a drawer, but still did not feel quite alone. It was not in her nature to shut a drawer violently: an edge of the blue envelope still stuck out. Her room was full of late light that, reflected through the big windows up from the lawn, filled the mirrors, struck on the polished bed-end’s mahogany whorls and blinded a print of calm ruins hanging over the mantelpiece. Emmeline, as though someone had touched her, was confused by a curious pleasure and trepidation. She heard Markie’s voice and confronted his sceptical eyes, the eyebrows above them twitching up in a question: her faculties stood quite still. Seeing herself in the mirror she turned away, dreading the touch of a thought, even her own. She received from the glowing walls of her room an impression of space, of a vast moment.
This impact of Markie upon her was disproportionate with her life. No one had troubled her, something in her had forbidden anything but indirectness and delicacy. A splinter of ice in the heart is bombed out rather than thawed out. At her desk in the window she wrote back quickly, before reflection could intervene:
“Dear Markie,—Yes, I can come on Friday, thank you, though it seems a pity you should have to put something off. I will try to be punctual, though we are kept very late at the office just now. I do not mind if we dance or not. I am sorry you thought me unreasonable; I suppose other people are often surprising.
“I can leave my car at the garage just round your corner so you need not call for me. But why should Cecilia be ‘amazed’?
“Yours,
“Emmeline.”
Remembering that this letter could not leave here till Monday, and that it would be quicker to take it with her to London, she slipped it into the drawer beside Markie’s and, at dinner, thought of their odd companionship among her gloves and handkerchiefs.
Cecilia, though she had trouble enough with her friends, never expected anyone to act out of character. She felt so certain Emmeline would think Markie awful that she had mentioned the prejudice to her aunt as a fait
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