“Wasn’t she supposed to have been overworking?”
“It wasn’t overwork. As a matter of fact, she’d hardly been working at all for months before it happened. But she’d been having an affair with Verinder.”
“An affair? He was having an affair with one of his own students?”
“Oh yes, that wasn’t unusual with him. She was only one of several. But she knew that, and she didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes I thought she seemed even to revel in the humiliation of it. I couldn’t understand that at all at the time, though I’ve seen the same sort of thing too often since to think there’s anything peculiar about it now. But Verinder saw fit to call it off suddenly, and that made her …that seemed to turn her into …”
“Don’t go on,” Stella said, looking white.
But he wanted to go on now. “I spent a week with her after it happened,” he said. “She wasn’t fit to be left alone. First she tried to kill herself with gas. I got there in time. Then she got hold of some poison. I got it away from her. Then she had a try at an open window. That time we had a fight all over the room. She was extraordinarily strong. And after that she promised she wouldn’t try again and said she was all right now, and she let me put her to bed and look after her. She let me cook her supper. And while I was in the kitchen, she crept out, and that was the last I saw of her. They picked her out of the river next day. And Verinder never even had to give evidence at the inquest.”
Stella’s hands, with the wool twisted about them, had sunk into her lap. At last she said, “But it wasn’t his fault, was it?”
“
Not
his fault?”
“No. … You can’t help it if you stop loving a person. You know that.”
“You can help what you do about it.”
“What else could he have done but break it off? She must have known that would happen sooner or later anyhow.”
“Why should she have known that?”
For a moment Stella looked unsure of herself. “Because—oh, because brilliant men like that—well, aren’t they usually unstable—difficult? I know that if I ever …”
“What?” David said.
She said very softly, “If I ever felt attracted to a man like Verinder, I’d know that that would be one of the things about him that I’d have to face. I’d know that it’d be useless to ask for too much for myself.”
“She didn’t ask for a damned thing,” David said. “That was the trouble. If she had, she’d have found him out sooner. She’d have found out there was nothing there, nothing human.”
“Oh, that isn’t true!”
“There aren’t any strong feelings in the man,” David said. “Even his cruelty’s a cool, watery affair, covered up in a pretence of tolerance and good humour. He pretended that he was being very kind to her, breaking it off, that it was consideration for her youth—all sorts of damned lies.”
“You’re wrong—you’re absolutely wrong.” Stella’s voice sharpened. “You’re simply prejudiced against him; you don’t understand him at all. He
is
tolerant and kind, far more than most people. I’m terribly sorry about Lizbeth—it’s a ghastly tragedy, and I only wish I’d had some idea of what you were going through at the time. I knew you were horribly upset, but I’d no idea how much it meant to you. But still, you can’t say it was Verinder’s fault—it wasn’t. It was her fault. She was that sort of person. Another person might have been just as unhappy and not dreamt of killing themselves. And she’d probably have done it sooner or later anyhow. I’m not trying to be cruel, David; I only want to make you understand. It’s bad for you to go on nursing this hatred. And it wasn’t Verinder’s fault—it wasn’t!”
David stood looking down at her with a feeling of astonishment at the intensity with which she had spoken. He did not feel angry with her; in fact he seemed to feel very little and simply to have nothing more to say. Yet about half-way through her speech he had begun to tremble slightly.
Stella looked up at him nervously.
“Well, that’s that,” he said meaninglessly, beginning to wrestle with a piece of bark on the trunk of the tree behind him. Then, all at once, he turned and walked off, in a desperate hurry to get away from Stella. The appalling, hot pressure of hatred had suddenly exploded inside him, making him half-blind and sick and scared. It was hatred of Stella and Mark Verinder and even of dead Lizbeth. Fantastic images of cruelty crowded his mind. He took the path round the house and out into the road, walking rapidly towards the town. He could think of nothing to do but to walk fast, till this raging hatred in him had drearily expired.
It was about half an hour later that he had his second meeting with Professor Verinder.
• • • • •
It happened in a book-shop in the main street of Wellford. The book-shop was a very good one. David was surprised to find such a place in a small market town. He had not yet taken in the fact that Wellford was largely inhabited by people who had very little business there. The market square still existed, and a market was held there every other Wednesday, the local accent was still heard in the shops, and farmers and their wives still came in from the surrounding country to buy their drapery and footwear and pay an occasional visit to the cinema. But the real life of the town had been slipping, year by year, into the hands of the people with week-end cottages on the outskirts of the town, the artists, the novelists, the journalists, the employees of the B.B.C., the hand-weavers and the proprietors of antique shops, expensive pubs or food-reform guest-houses.
As David went into the book-shop he vaguely noticed the name written in neat gold letters on the glass panel of the door, S. & W. Fortis, Ltd. He noticed it because it struck him as familiar, but he did not trouble to think out where he had heard it before. What struck him as he heard the bell above the door jingle softly and saw the high-walled tunnels of books before him filled with a dim, solacing light was that if he had been told anything of a book-shop like this in the neighbourhood, he would have taken the walk into Wellford far sooner.
The shop seemed to be empty, and as he stood still for a moment, glancing half-sightlessly up and down the nearest shelves, he let a pleasant feeling of security well up in him. Soon he would begin finding his way round, picking a book out here and there, feeling its cover, turning its pages. But as he moved down one of the lanes of books he heard footsteps in the depths of the shop, and a woman came towards him.
She was about forty, tall and well-built, dressed in a well-cut suit of dark red tweed with a Victorian garnet brooch on the lapel. Her dark brown hair was cut short like a man’s, and her face had a smooth, handsome grimness.
“Can I help you at all?” she asked. Her voice had a surprising depth and sweetness.
David replied, “I’d like just to look round for a bit, if I may.”
“Of course,” she said, smiled and turned away at once.
For some reason, David immediately wanted to hear that voice again.
“It’s a rather astonishing thing to find, a book-shop like this in a place like Wellford,” he said.
She turned towards him once more. “I suppose it is, though we’ve been here some time now. You’re a stranger?”
“Yes.”
“On a visit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you’ll come in as often as you like while you’re here. We’ve some interesting things.” She smiled again. She had recognised a real buyer of books, a half-knowledgeable enthusiast. Yet both her smile and the quiet voice, producing the deliberately spoken words, were impersonal, reserved, a little chilling. “Let me know if you want me—I’ll be in the office here.”
This time David let her go. Turning back to the shelves, he reached up a hand for a battered brown volume of Defoe that happened to catch his eye. He stood turning its leaves, finding spotty pages, small print and poor, mildly bawdy illustrations. Thrusting it back, he moved on. Next he chanced on a modern remaindered edition of Chekov’s letters and thought that that was something he would probably like to buy, though perhaps not on this visit. Next, with extraordinary pleasure, he recognised a copy of a Nonsense Book that he and Stella had possessed as children and which he had never seen since that time.
He was looking at its drawings when he became aware of voices at the other end of the shop.
One was the voice of the woman who had come out to speak to him.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” she was saying. It was astonishing how strident that voice could become. “I think it’s a mistake, and I refuse to have anything to do with it. It’s Sam’s affair, not mine. As you know, we keep our affairs completely separate.”
“Yes, I know,” the other voice said and tittered. It was a light, feminine voice, yet a man’s. “Amazing people, I haven’t the faintest idea how you can do it. Your love-life must be one long welter of arithmetic. But now listen, my dear Winnfrieda, please tell Sam—”
“I won’t tell Sam anything,” the woman answered. “I consider the whole thing much too risky.”
“Sh!” the man said at once. “There’s someone out there, isn’t there?” He went on talking but more softly, and the woman’s answers became inaudible too.
David made a dive for the door. He knew that it was Mark Verinder in there in the office, and he was not going to wait for a meeting. As he tugged at the door he heard the bell on it jangle sharply and then the door slam behind him with an unexpected force so that, reaching the pavement, he was startled by the loud noise of it and stood still with a shrinking feeling up his spine. Then he looked down and saw that he was still holding the Nonsense Book. There was nothing for it but to go back into the shop.
The noise of the bell had brought the woman out of the office again. She stood there looking at him with a mild, questioning look on her face. David offered no explanation. He held out the Nonsense Book.
“How much is this?” he asked.
“Ah, that,” she said, “it’s a treasure, isn’t it? I’m so glad you like it. It’s so superior to anything of the same sort nowadays, isn’t it? The naïveté seems so genuine instead of a self-conscious little excursion into the schizophrenic. It’s sixteen shillings, I believe.” She reached out her hand for it. “Yes, sixteen shillings.”
David, who had thought of spending perhaps two and sixpence, gave her a pound note, and she retired to the back of the shop to fetch his change. It was then that Mark Verinder emerged and advanced upon David.
In the dimness of the shop the head on the short, thick neck seemed to merge shapelessly into the wide shoulders. The bulge of the pullover made David think of a toad’s pale under-belly. Cheerfully Verinder said, “Ah, it’s you, Obeney. I thought I recognised your voice. Getting about a bit now? That’s good. I’m so glad.” He laid a hand lightly on David’s shoulder.
David stood rigid, and luckily the hand was withdrawn.
“Been buying something?” Verinder went on. “Let’s see, may I?” He took the Nonsense Book out of David’s hand. “Ah, charming,” he said. “Charming; I wish I’d spotted it. … By the way, Obeney …” He handed the book back. “Why did you pretend the other day that we hadn’t met?”
David looked down at the book in his hand, holding on to it tightly and yet wanting to throw it away because Verinder had touched it. “Why did you?” he asked.
“I? I didn’t,” Verinder said. “I had a feeling your face was familiar and I said so, didn’t I? But so many people change a great deal between the ages of twenty and thirty, far more than they do at my age. I’m sure, for instance, you used not to wear glasses. And then, so many students pass through one’s hands, you know. One can’t keep track of them all, much as one would like to. But you must have remembered me.”
“Why?” David asked.
He saw a faint look of surprise on Verinder’s face.
“Why …? Well, after all … One doesn’t forget one’s professor, you know. I know that from my own experience.”
“No other reason?”
The light eyes, watching David’s, became more intent. “Do we need another?” Verinder sounded cautious, as if he had just become aware of some problem connected with David.
“You see,” David said slowly, “you’ve become a rather famous man recently, and I didn’t like the idea of trying to thrust myself on you.”
He felt very pleased with the smooth way he produced this lie. But he could not be quite certain if it was in fact relief that he saw on Verinder’s face as Verinder’s hand again descended on his shoulder.
“My dear fellow, how absurd,” he said. “You don’t honestly think I’m that sort of person, do you? Dear me, I do hope you don’t.”
“One never knows,” David said.
“Nonsense, you’re too suspicious. I’m always simply delighted to meet my students again when they’ve gone on and made their way in the world—there’s nothing more interesting. Really, I take it rather hard that you should have had an idea like that. To make up for it you’ll have to come along with Ferdie and Stella to-night—they’re coming to have coffee with us about eight o’clock. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Thanks, but I’m not going anywhere much at present,” David said.
“No? Well, I quite understand, though personally I think you should make the effort. Anyway, come if you feel like it. My wife wants to meet you. Come any time. Come when you want to borrow a book. Do come.” With a smile, Verinder gave David’s shoulder one last pat and went out. Winnfrieda Fortis came forward from the back of the shop.
“I hadn’t realised you were Mr. Obeney,” she said, giving David his change. “Your sister and I are friends, you know.”
David was wondering if it could actually be possible that Verinder did not remember his connection with Lizbeth Rivers. Or could he believe that David had forgotten it? What could such a man believe?
He dropped the coins into his pocket. “Well—well, thanks,” he said. “I expect I’ll look in again sometime.”
“Do.” She gave him a detached smile. “Verinder isn’t always here, you know.”
David felt himself flushing. So it was as obvious as that.
“I don’t care if he is,” he muttered. “I don’t care where in hell he is!”
Winnfrieda Fortis lifted her eyebrows.
“Well, it seems probable you aren’t one of the people who contribute to his fan-mail,” she said.
“Well, thanks,” David said again.