The Diamond Waterfall (53 page)

Above all, not this alarming tenderness, this corroding worry. Worry for him now, December 1922. Next year, the year after. Saddest of all, in the years to come when she would not be there to help, to protect. For she wanted to look after him: he who looked after others all day, and often all night. Whose wife was yet another charge upon his loving care. …

When it all began to go wrong, when the guilt began, the
real
guilt—she told herself (they told each other) that they were hurting no one. Lately she had moved to lying gently in his arms. Nothing more. Fear of discovery had left them, if it had ever existed. And since they didn't fear discovery …

She said, “We hurt no one. Tell me that's true. That we can just
be together.”
Then she said, “It's so little, I take so little from her.” (She could not bear to pronounce her name, just as she couldn't bear the thought of meeting her, of knowing that she might be hurting, had the power to hurt, a
real
person.) “She has—everything else.”

Of course she hadn't. Patricia hadn't health, hadn't legs that would carry her … Life was a wheelchair with the future growing always darker …

No wonder, she thought, we feel shame and guilt.

The little anteroom never lost its odd dusty smell, its memories of long-forgotten chemicals. But she thought of it as paradise. The day of his visit she would take hothouse flowers for her own room, then steal up to the tower with half of them. She took fruit too, although they never ate, or drank. While waiting for him, she would feel as if she had drunk champagne, heady.

Other people existed too. A world outside that sitting room. Letters written, received. An outing perhaps with Edie Hawksworth. Reggie …

Reggie had developed a passion for exercise and fresh air. “I'm jolly unfit. …
You'll
come out with a chap, though, won't you?” Traipsing over the moors, dulled heather, sparse bent, driving wind, walking from Flaxthorpe to Beck Holm. Ending up at the Malt and Shovel. “They know me in here.” Buying her sweet sherry (“Reggie, I don't … a ginger beer if I
must.”).
Sleeve dangling, the war hero. Dear Reggie … He spoke of grandiose schemes to anyone who would listen. And took of course this opportunity,
any
opportunity, to ask her again.

She said to Geoffrey once, “You're not jealous of him?”

He smiled. “How could I be?”

“He can't seem to take no for an answer. … But he's leaving his aunt soon, so there'll be even less to be jealous about.” (But oh,
I
am jealous of Patricia. That is perhaps the wickedest of all.)

There were other wickednesses, though. Because in the end it had not been sufficient, just to be together. The kisses, at first so shy and gentle, then as they lay in each other's arms, longer and longer. Their mouths grew hungry. It didn't matter that they whispered, over and over, “We shouldn't, I shouldn't, I shouldn't.” Her hushed, hushing whisper, “We hurt no one, we hurt no one. …” (How often now she repeated that phrase to herself, as she lay sleepless in the night.)

When in the end they became one person, it was no accident. But perhaps because they had been so near so often, had felt able even to discuss it. His preparations did not seem to her strange or ridiculous. And in every way he took care of her. She would think again and again, Never, however long I live, shall I forget this sitting room, and the feel, the smell, the taste of him.

Sometimes her wrongdoing would come over her suddenly, she would close her eyes and feel removed, beyond it all.
We hurt no one. …
Then she would be open-eyed again, hungry not to miss a moment's sight of her beloved.

So much love, so much happiness—she had not known about that kind of happiness. She could not believe it was not so for every woman, every time. Shy of talking about it, having no name for it, she called it just “being happy.”

His departure: certain now although no date was fixed. In early November he had told her he'd applied for a post in Rhodesia. If he was not successful with this, there were others. …

“You understand? Darling, you understand?”

She understood, of course, for had they not both decided that it was the best, the only
true
solution? He told her, “I search in vain, I'm afraid, for the generosity to wish you some wonderful romantic meeting soon. Even if not
till the summer.” (Oh, but I shan't do a Season,
cannot.)
“Someone who will make you forget …”

“There's no need for that generosity—”

“But you're so young. If I had not—if this hadn't happened …”

“Oh,” she said tiredly, “just don't say to me, ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more' …”

A moment later, she was in his arms.

The first week in December he went to London for an interview. Soon after his return he told her that he'd been offered the post. Medical officer, near Bulawayo. He must leave before the first of February.

Their love. It was one thing to know it had an end, quite another when the end could be seen, darkly gleaming. He said:

“It'll be easier for me—no, no, darling, not because I love you
less
—but because I shall have all the distractions. New country. New post …”

She would have only the familiar to occupy her. The summer to dread. Some solitude. And memories.

Her father's condition was unimproved. Breathing growing more difficult. The week before Christmas he became suddenly worse. On the Friday, toward eight in the evening, Geoffrey came for the second time.

Mother said, “It's pitiful to see—to hear. Is there
nothing
you can do?” The room was full already of steam. He was given another injection. She told Geoffrey, “My daughter's been wonderful.”

Teddy had been sent for. She would have come anyway at Christmas. Alice, in her convent, was kept informed by telephone.

Geoffrey stayed on. He told them, “It won't be long now.”

The fight for breath—which was life. She had never truly realized that before. He was barely conscious. The overheated, darkened room—a pool of soft light about the bed. Just after nine o'clock, he died. Mother laid a hand gently on his, lying on the coverlet. She turned a concerned face to Geoffrey:

“That
terrible
struggle—you're certain he wasn't conscious?”

“I'm certain.”

Sylvia was amazed at the violence of her own grief. After her mother had touched him, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. Then she felt, she didn't know what, some terror rising in her so that she was unable to look at him. She remembered that he had loved her. How often, lately, had she sat in here: she had read to him, held his hand—she had been his companion, his favorite (one daughter lost to God, another with whom he had never got on. A dead son.). She had even, for him, worn the Diamond Waterfall.

The need to weep tore at her chest. She left the bedside, ran blindly to the door, choking and sobbing. She heard her mother call out after her. A remark from Geoffrey, low-voiced, came to her from far away.

In her room she sat for some few minutes on the edge of the bed. She could not stop the sobbing: dry-eyed, painful.

She did not at first answer the knock. Her mother's voice: “Sylvia.” Getting up slowly, she went to the door. Her mother stood outside, Geoffrey with her.

“I brought Dr. Selwood to see you, darling.” She turned to him. “My daughter was very close to my husband. If she needs some sedative, drug— whatever you think. I always fear strong reactions.” She added simply, “I leave her in your care.”

The door closed. At once Sylvia fell into his arms. Cradled, she felt slowly the convulsions lessen. Her head against his chest—how often they had stood like this, up in the small tower room, putting off the moment of parting.

“My darling, all right, all right.” He spoke to her very softly.

She said in a shaky voice, attempting to smile, “You're meant to be giving me medicine.”

He said, “That I should be sent—that I should be asked to care for you. But you will be all right, you know.” He was stroking her hair. “It's
good
that you cry.”

“See,” she said bravely. “I am so much better already.” She added, trying to make her voice bright, “You never saw my room before—it seems odd, that.”

He said gently, “It's a lovely room.”

But the shivering had begun again. She clung to him.

“Perhaps I should give you something, wouldn't that be better—no? Sylvia, Sylvia.”

It seemed so natural, inevitable, as remembered touch led to remembered touch. She cried out, “Yes, give me something. Yes, yes.” Of what use that he said over and over, “I mustn't, I mustn't …”

They lay entwined on her bed, sprawled across it. She wept now for a double loss: her father gone, and Geoffrey to go so soon. In each other's arms, hungering for solace. Need. Desperation.

The most loved part of him deep inside—
we hurt no one
—she covered him with kisses, as he kissed her. Little sobs. “Ssh, ssh, my darling.” Oh, but there is no end to this, no other world in which I wish to be, the darkness, the dark curtains parting.
There must be light.

She cried out then, only a few moments before, shuddering, he clasped her tighter, tighter. They lay still. She felt calm—but strangely desolate.

Soon, too soon, as she sat, head lowered, again on the edge of the bed: “I —have to go. Darling …”

She nodded dully, took his hand and clasped it tight. Heard him say, “I'm leaving a draft—to help you sleep.”

She wanted to call after him, “Only with you can I sleep.” She knew that
she mourned not only her father's death, but her lover's departure.
Nevermore.
This is what it means.

Teddy arrived early in the morning. Sylvia, who had longed for her to come, could say nothing to her. At midday Geoffrey came. Teddy spoke to him, discussing Father's illness. Sylvia sat there stiffly, feeling the same wooden dread she had woken with. She heard him ask after her, then say (she could not bear it, how they must be in public), “I ought perhaps to see you a moment alone, Miss Firth.”

They went into the morning room, stood there with the door open. They spoke in low tones.

“I'm terribly, terribly ashamed. That I should have let—that it should have happened like that.”

She said, “Oh, but I too.” Then slowly, because it was so difficult: “Perhaps—if we should begin to leave each other
now.
I couldn't bear to part by slow degrees. And—to run the risks of discovery so near—”

He said hurriedly, “You know, darling, that we were—that it was without protection. I feel so … What I may have done—”

“Oh,” she said dully, “oh.” Then, eager to console him: “It will be not to worry, I'm certain—”

“But you'll tell me
at once
if something has gone wrong?”

A doctor who in the course of his work no doubt spoke quite plainly could not seem to spell out this. She herself did not want to think of it at all. Had it not been in the end her fault?
She
had begun the desperate needing— and now was leaving him in his last weeks here, full of a new worry.

Christmas, to be lived through. The funeral. Reading the will. Except for the money set aside for Mother, Sylvia inherited everything. The Diamond Waterfall, The Towers, investments, land. When she was twenty-five all would be hers.

She wanted only to weep. Teddy told her, “It's perfectly natural. It's just we can't expect Mother … When after all it has been so long now. Erik …” She asked, was Sylvia angry with Lily about Erik?

“No, no. Not at all.” It had not occurred to her. Since love could come so unbidden, nothing surprised her. “They weren't suited,” she said. “I realized that in a way, even when I was a child.”

Teddy tried to persuade her to come back to Paris with her. “Just for a little, until I leave for New York. It's cold in Paris now, but no worse than Yorkshire. I have this lovely apartment.”

No,
no.
How could she while, separated though they were, she and Geoffrey still breathed the same air? “I'd rather stay here, truly.”

It was torture when people discussed, as inevitably they must, the imminent departure of Dr. Selwood. Mother, he had told at the funeral. The doctor who was to buy his practice had visited already. …

Her period was late: she should have had it about the tenth of January. But it was often so. Twice last year she had missed a month altogether. She felt normal. Her body told her nothing other than that her heart grieved. But for several days together she was filled with a deep suspicion—the thought at once so terrible, so powerful, she could not bring herself to look at it calmly, but buried it at once.

She dreamed she told him, only that it
might
be. His face—such joy. No more welcome news she could have given him. Cold daylight spoke otherwise, bringing with it temptation. She knew she should not, must not tell him. If she did, she could
surely stop him going.
Fantasy ran riot.

“Of course,” he would say, “of course we must get married. I'll get a divorce. She'll give me one. You and I will go to Rhodesia.
It will be all right.”

But she allowed herself this wicked fantasy only once. Yes, wicked. For how could she break up another's home (“We hurt no one”), take from a sick woman her rightful husband, from children, their father? I will deal with this worry alone, she thought. And if it
was
only a worry. How doubly wicked then to distress him with a “maybe” or a “could be.”

The dark days until his departure moved slowly, sadly. They contrived a social meeting. He looked tired with the changeover, the mammoth arrangements to transport a whole family abroad. When he asked if everything was all right, she told him he need not worry about her. “I shall begin a new life in February. And I'm very strong, you've seen how strong I am.” She did not tell him that she had refused a holiday in Paris, with Teddy.