Defend and Betray

He stood motionless, overcome with misery and appalling, desolating loneliness.

“William, you promised,” she said almost under her breath, looking not at him but at the floor. “I can't. I told you before-you frighten me. I don't feel that-I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to care so much about anything, or anyone. You work too hard, you get too angry, too involved in other people's tragedies or injustices. You fight too hard for what you want, you are prepared to pay more than I-for anything. And you hurt too much if you lose.” She gulped and looked up, her eyes full of pleading. “I don't want to feel all that. It frightens me. I don't like it. You frighten me. I don't love that way-and I don't want you to love me like that-I can't live up to it-and I would hate trying to. I want…” She bit her lip. “I want peace-I want to be comfortable.”

Comfortable! God Almighty!

“William? Don't be angry-I can't help it-I told you all that before. I thought you understood. Why have you come back? You'll only upset things. I'm married to Gerald now, and he's good to me. But I don't think he would care for you coming back. He's grateful you proved my i

For the sake of his own dignity, some salve to his self-respect, he must assure her he would go quietly, not cause her any embarrassment. There was no purpose whatever in staying anyway. It was all too obvious why he had left in the first place. She had no passion to match his. She was a beautiful vessel, gentle at least outwardly, but it was born from fear of unpleasantness, not of compassion, such as a deeper woman might have felt-but she was a shallower vessel than he, incapable of answering him. She wanted to be comfortable; there was something i

“I am glad you are happy,” he said, his voice dry, catching in his throat. “There is no need to be frightened. I shall not stay. I came across from Guildford. I have to be in London tomorrow morning anyway-a big trial. She-the woman accused-made me think of you. I wanted to see you-know how you are. Now I do; it is enough.”

“Thank you.” The relief flooded her face. “I-I would rather Gerald did not know you were here. He-he wouldn't like it.”

“Then don't tell him,” he said simply. “And if the maid mentions it, I was merely an old friend, calling by to enquire after your health, and to wish you happiness.”

“I am well-and happy. Thank you, William.” Now she was embarrassed. Perhaps she realized how shallow she sounded; but it was at least past, and she had no intention of apologizing for it or trying to ameliorate its truth.

Nor did she offer him refreshment. She wanted him to leave before her husband returned from wherever he was- perhaps church.

There was nothing of any dignity or worth to be gained by remaining-only a petty selfishness, a desire for a small revenge, and he would despise it afterwards.

“Then I shall walk to the station and catch the next train towards London.” He went to the door, and she opened it for him hastily, thanking him once again.

He bade her good-bye and two minutes later was walking along the lane under die trees with the wind-swung leaves dancing across the sunlight, birds singing. Here and there was a splash of white hawthorn blossom in the hedges, its perfume so sweet in the air that quite suddenly it brought him close to unexpected tears, not of self-pity because he had lost a love, but because what he had truly hungered for with such terrible depth had never existed-not in her. He had painted on her lovely face and gentle ma

He blinked, and quickened his pace. He was a hard man, often cruel, demanding, brilliant, unflinching from labor or truth-at least he had been-but by God he had courage. And with all the changes he meant to wreak in himself, that at least he would never change.

Hester spent Sunday, with Edith's unintentional help, visiting Damaris. This time she did not see Randolph or Felicia Carlyon, but went instead to the gate and the door of the wing where Damaris and Peverell lived and, when they chose, had a certain amount of privacy. She had nothing to say to Felicia, and would be grateful not to be faced with the duty of having to try to find something civil and noncommittal to fill the silences there would inevitably be. And she also felt a trifle guilty for what she intended to do, and what she knew it would cost them.

She wished to see Damaris alone, absolutely alone, without fear of interruption from anyone (least of all Felicia), so she could confront her with the terrible facts that Monk had found, and perhaps wring from her the truth about the night of the murder.

Without knowing why, Edith had agreed to distract Peverell and keep him from home, on whatever pretext came to her mind. Hester had told her only that she needed to see Damaris, and that it was delicate and likely to be painful, but that it concerned a truth they had to learn. Hester felt abominably guilty that she had not told Edith what it was, but knowledge would also bring the obligation to choose, and that was a burden she dared not place on Edith in case she chose the wrong way, and love for her sister outweighed pursuit of truth. And if the truth were as ugly as they feared, it would be easier for Edith afterwards if she had had no conscious hand in exposing it.

She repeated this over to herself as she sat in Damaris's elegant, luxurious sitting room waiting for her to come, and finding sparse comfort in it.

She looked around the room. It was typical of Damaris, the conventional and the outrageous side by side, the comfort of wealth and exquisite taste, the safety of the established order-and next to it the wildly rebellious, the excitement of indiscipline. Idealistic landscapes hung on one side of the room, on the other were reproductions of two of William Blake's wilder, more passionate drawings of the human figure. Religion, philosophy and daring voyages into new politics sat on the same bookshelf. Artifacts were romantic or blasphemous, expensive or tawdry, practical or useless, personal taste side by side with the desire to shock. It was the room of two totally different people, or one person seeking to have the best of opposing worlds, to make daring voyages of exploration and at the same time keep hold of comfort and the safety of the long known.

When Damaris came in she was dressed in a gown which was obviously new, but so old in style it harked back to lines of the French Empire. It was startling, but as soon as Hester got over the surprise of it, she realized it was also extremely becoming, the line so much more natural than all the current layers of stiff petticoats and hooped skirts. It was also certainly far more comfortable to wear. Although she thought Damaris almost certainly chose it for effect, not comfort.

“How nice to see you,” Damaris said warmly. Her face was pale and there were shadows of sleeplessness around her eyes. “Edith said you wanted to speak to me about the case. I don't know what I can tell you. It's a disaster, isn't it.” She flopped down on the sofa and without thinking tucked her feet up to be comfortable. She smiled at Hester rather wanly. “I'm afraid your Mr. Rathbone is out of his depth-he isn't clever enough to get Alexandra out of this.” She pulled a face. “But from what I have seen, he doesn't even appear to be trying. Anyone could do all that he has so far. What's that matter, Hester? Doesn't he believe it is worth it?”