• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 5736 0

Sarah might put an unfortunate construction on any removal of clothes. He took his place in the nest beside her and for a few moments they kissed, thereby making real a scene which the Major had frequently evoked in his imagination. The reality however, turned out to be less satisfactory than the scene he had pictured. In hardly any time he was sweating profusely; his shirt clung to his back and his collar itched unbearably. Sarah was clearly also suffering from the heat; her brow was damp and shiny; as she raised a hand to brush away a stray lock of hair that was threatening to creep between their kissing lips he noticed that a dark stain had appeared under the arm of her grey silk dress. At any moment, he was afraid, she might decide that the heat was too much. While with a trace of desperation he continued to kiss her, he nerved himself to say what he had to say, to speak the words on which his happiness depended. He cleared his throat and...but no, he retired again for one final revision of the words in his mind.

Presently Sarah disengaged herself and said: “I’m afraid my dress will get crumpled.” She hesitated for a moment, half expectantly, then with a sigh she got to her feet. The Major leaped up also and, mopping the perspiration from his brow, said jerkily: “Look here, I want you to be my wife.” He could say no more. He could not move. He stood waiting there like a pillar of salt. He could see, however, that it was going to be no go.

Sarah’s face had taken on a bitter, sly expression he had seen many times before. She said crossly: “Oh, I know you do, Brendan.” For a while neither of them said a word, then she added: “This heat is frightful. I shall have to go and wash my face.”

She turned away. The candle on the floor threw hulking shadows over the ceiling and the walls.

“Really, you’re such a child. You haven’t any idea what I’m really like...Oh, I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question...D’you know that I’m a Catholic? Of course you do. But do you even know what a Catholic is? You probably think it’s some sort of superstition or black magic or...But no, forget all that, that’s not what I want to say. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m a Catholic. It’s simply impossible, d’you understand? And for heaven’s sake stop staring at me with sheep’s eyes like that! You’re not the man I want and that’s all there is to it...That’s that. So please don’t mention it again. I thought you were cured of all that nonsense. Now I’m going to wash my face!”

“But why not?”

“I told you. Because you aren’t the man I want! Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I suppose you want Edward, then.”

“I want a man who isn’t always trying to agree with people, if you must know. There! Now perhaps you’ll let me go and wash my face...And for heaven’s sake don’t look so wretched. I’m sorry...but it would serve you right if I did marry you. You wouldn’t like it in the least. No, don’t come with me...I’ll find my own way.”

Left alone, the Major took off his coat and fanned his flushed, unhappy face with a pillow-case starched as stiff as cardboard. Craving sweetness, he delved into his pocket for the bar of chocolate he had put there. But the chocolate had melted into a mass of oozing silver paper.

When the Major had composed himself a little he went downstairs. The ballroom was empty except for an effete young man with a monocle who was strumming on the abandoned piano while a thick-set lady sat on a stool beside him eating trifle. This young man was G.F. Edge, the racing motorist, so the Major had been told (but somehow he found it hard to believe). In any case, they paid no attention to the Major and so, although he was not in the least hungry, he wandered towards the dining-room where supper was being served.

Not for many years had such a magnificent display been seen in the dining-room of the Majestic: the snowy linen that cloaked the tables, the silver winking in the candlelight, the golden-crusted battlemented pies filled with succulent game, pheasants and ducks in quivering aspic, brittle and juicy hams cured with sugar