Wilding looked faintly puzzled by Llewellyn’s last words.
He said with a faint trace of embarrassment: ‘It’s good of you to have told me all you have. Please believe that it wasn’t just vulgar curiosity on my part.’
‘I know that. You have a real interest in your fellow man.’
‘And you are an unusual specimen. I’ve read in various periodicals accounts of your career. But it wasn’t those things that interested me. Those details are merely factual.’
Llewellyn nodded. His mind was still occupied with the past. He was remembering the day when the elevator had swept him up to the thirty-fifth floor of a high building. The reception-room, the tall, elegant blonde who had received him, the square-shouldered, thick-set young man, to whom she had handed him over, and the final sanctuary: the inner office of the magnate. The gleaming pale surface of the vast desk, and the man who rose from behind the desk to proffer a hand and utter a welcome. The big jowl, the small, piercing blue eyes. Just as he had seen them that day in the desert.
‘… certainly glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Knox. As I see it, the country is ripe for a great return to God … got to be put over in a big way … to get results we’ve got to spend money … been to two of your meetings … I certainly was impressed … you’d got them right with you, eating up every word … it was great … great!’
God and Big Business. Did they seem incongruous together? And yet, why should they? If business acumen was one of God’s gifts to man, why should it not be used in his service?
He, Llewellyn, had had no doubts or qualms, for this room and this man had already been shown to him. It was part of the pattern, his pattern. Was there sincerity here, a simple sincerity that might seem as grotesque as the early carvings on a font? Or was it the mere grasping of a business opportunity? The realization that God might be made to pay?
Llewellyn had never known, had not, indeed, troubled himself even to wonder. It was part of his pattern. He was nba messenger, nothing more, a man under obedience.
Fifteen years … From the small open-air meetings of the beginning, to lecture-rooms, to halls, to vast stadiums.
Faces, blurred gigantic masses of faces, receding into the distance, rising up in serried rows. Waiting, hungering …
And his part? Always the same.
The coldness, the recoil of fear, the emptiness, the waiting.
And then Dr Llewellyn Knox rises to his feet and … the words come, rushing through his mind, emerging through his lips … Not his words, never his words. But the glory, the ecstasy of speaking them, that was his.
(That, of course, was where the danger had lain. Strange that he should not have realized that until now.)
And then the aftermath, the fawning women, the hearty men, his own sense of semi-collapse, of deadly nausea, the hospitality, the adulation, the hysteria.
And he himself, responding as best he could, no longer the messenger of God, but the inadequate human being, something far less than those who looked at him with their foolish worshipping gaze. For virtue had gone out of him, he was drained of all that gives a man human dignity, a sick exhausted creature, filled with despair, black, empty, hollow despair.
‘Poor Dr Knox,’ they said, ‘he looks so tired.’
Tired. More and more tired …
He had been a strong man physically, but not strong enough to outlast fifteen years. Nausea, giddiness, a fluttering heart, a difficulty in drawing breath, blackouts, fainting spells – quite simply, a worn-out body.
And so to the sanatorium in the mountains. Lying there motionless, staring out through the window at the dark shape of the pine tree cutting the line of the sky, and the round, pink face bending over him, the eyes behind the thick glasses, owlish in their solemnity.
‘It will be a long business; you’ll have to be patient.’
‘Yes, Doctor?’
‘You’ve a strong constitution fortunately, but you’ve strained it unmercifully. Heart, lungs – every organ in your body has been affected.’
‘Are you breaking it to me that I’m going to die?’
He had asked the question with only mild curiosity.
‘Certainly not. We’ll get you right again. As I say, it will be a long business, but you’ll go out of here a fit man. Only –’
The doctor hesitated.
‘Only what?’
‘You must understand this, Dr Knox. You’ll have to lead a quiet life in future. There must be no more public life. Your heart won’t stand it. No platforms, no exertion, no speeches.’
‘After a rest –’
‘No, Dr Knox, however long you rest, my verdict will be the same.’
‘I see.’ He thought about it. ‘I see. Worn out?’
‘Just that.’
Worn out. Used by God for His purpose, but the instrument, being human and frail, had not lasted long. His usefulness was over. Used, discarded, thrown away.
And what next?
That was the question. What next?
Because, after all, who was he, Llewellyn Knox?
He would have to find out.
Wilding’s voice came in, pat upon his thoughts.
‘Is it in order for me to ask you what your future plans are?’
‘I have no plans.’
‘Really? You hope, perhaps, to go back –’
Llewellyn interrupted, a slight harshness in his voice.
‘There is no going back.’
‘Some modified form of activity?’
‘No. It’s a clean break – has to be.’
‘They told you that?’
‘Not in so many words. Public life is out, was what they stressed. No more platform. That means finish.’
‘A quiet living somewhere? Living is not your term, I know, but I mean minister to some church?’
‘I was an evangelist, Sir Richard. That’s a very different thing.’
‘I’m sorry. I think I understand. You’ve got to start an entirely new life.’
‘Yes, a private life, as a man.’
‘And that confuses and alarms you?’
Llewellyn shook his head.
‘Nothing like that. I see, I’ve seen it plainly in the weeks I’ve been here, that I’ve escaped a great danger.’
‘What danger?’
‘Man cannot be trusted with power. It rots him – from within. How much longer could I have gone on without the taint creeping in? I suspect that already it had begun to work. Those moments when I spoke to those vast crowds of people – wasn’t I beginning to assume that it was I who was speaking, I who was giving them a message, I who knew just what they should or should not do, I who was no longer just God’s messenger, but God’s representative? You see? Promoted to Vizier, exalted, a man set above other men!’ He added quietly: ‘God in His goodness has seen fit to save me from that.’
‘Then your faith has not been diminished by what has happened to you?’
Llewellyn laughed.
‘Faith? That seems an odd word to me. Do we believe in the sun, the moon, the chair we sit in, the ground we walk upon? If one has knowledge, what need of belief? And do disabuse your mind of the idea that I’ve suffered some kind of tragedy. I haven’t, I’ve pursued my appointed course – am still pursuing it. It was right for me to come here – to the island; it will be right for me to leave it when the time comes.’
‘You mean you will get another – what did you call it? – command?’
‘Oh no, nothing so definite. But little by little a certain course of action will appear not only to be desirable, but inevitable. Then I shall go ahead and act. Things will clarify themselves in my mind. I shall know where I have to go and what I have to do.’
‘As easy as that?’
‘I think so – yes. If I can explain it, it’s a question of being in harmony. A wrong course of action – and by wrong I don’t mean wrong in the sense of evil, but of being mistaken – is felt at once: it’s like falling out of step if you’re dancing, or singing a false note – it jars.’ Moved by a sudden memory, he said: ‘If I was a woman, I dare say it would feel like getting a stitch wrong when you were knitting.’
‘What about women? Will you, perhaps, go back home? Find your early love?’
‘The sentimental ending? Hardly. Besides,’ he smiled, ‘Carol has been married for many years now. She has three children, and her husband is going ahead in real estate in a big way. Carol and I were never meant for each other. It was a boy and girl affair that never went deep.’
‘Has there been no other woman in all these years?’
‘No, thank God. If there had been, if I had met her then –’
He left the sentence unfinished, puzzling Wilding a little by so doing. Wilding could have no clue to the picture that sprang up before Llewellyn’s mental vision – the wings of dark hair, the frail delicate temple-bones, the tragic eyes.
Some day, Llewellyn knew, he would meet her. She was as real as the office desk and the sanatorium had been. She existed. If he had met her during the time of his dedication he would have been forced to give her up. It would have been required of him. Could he have done it? He doubted himself. His dark lady was no Carol, no light affair born of the spring-time and a young man’s quickened senses. But that sacrifice had not been demanded of him. Now he was free. When they met … He had no doubt that they would meet. Under what circumstances, in what place, at what moment of time – all that was unknown. A stone font in a church, tongues of fire, those were the only indications he had. Yet he had the feeling that he was coming very near, that it would not be long now.
The abruptness with which the door between the bookcases opened, startled him. Wilding turned his head, rose to his feet with a gesture of surprise.
‘Darling, I didn’t expect –’
She was not wearing the Spanish shawl, or the high-necked black dress. She had on something diaphanous and floating in pale mauve, and it was the colour, perhaps, that made Llewellyn feel that she brought with her the old-fashioned scent of lavender. She stopped when she saw him; her eyes, wide and slightly glazed, stared at him, expressing such a complete lack of emotion that it was almost shocking.
‘Dearest, is your head better? This is Dr Knox. My wife.’
Llewellyn came forward, took her limp hand, said formally: ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Wilding.’
The wide stare became human; it showed, very faintly, relief. She sat in the chair that Wilding pushed forward for her and began talking rapidly, with a staccato effect.
‘So you’re Dr Knox? I’ve read about you, of course. How odd that you should come here – to the island. Why did you? I mean, what made you? People don’t usually, do they, Richard?’ She half turned her head, hurried on, inconsequently:
‘I mean they don’t stay in the island. They come in on boats, and go out again. Where? I’ve often wondered. They buy fruit and those silly little dolls and the straw hats they make here, and then they go back with them to the boat, and the boat sails away. Where do they go back to? Manchester? Liverpool? Chichester, perhaps, and wear a plaited straw hat to church in the cathedral. That would be funny. Things are funny. People say: “I don’t know whether I’m going or coming.” My old nurse used to say it. But it’s true, isn’t it? It’s life. Is one going or coming? I don’t know.’
She shook her head and suddenly laughed. She swayed a little as she sat. Llewellyn thought: ‘In a minute or two, she’ll pass out. Does he know, I wonder?’
But a quick sideways glance at Wilding decided that for him. Wilding, that experienced man of the world, had no idea. He was leaning over his wife, his face alight with love and anxiety.
‘Darling, you’re feverish. You shouldn’t have got up.’
‘I felt better – all those pills I took; it’s killed the pain, but it’s made me dopey.’ She gave a slight, uncertain laugh, her hands pushed the pale, shining hair back from her forehead. ‘Don’t fuss about me, Richard. Give Dr Knox a drink.’
‘What about you? A spot of brandy? It would do you good.’
She made a quick grimace:
‘No, just lime and soda for me.’
She thanked him with a smile as he brought her glass to her.
‘You’ll never die of drink,’ he said.
For a moment her smile stiffened.
She said:
‘Who knows?’
‘I know. Knox, what about you? Soft drink? Whisky?’
‘Brandy and soda, if I may.’
Her eyes were on the glass as he held it.
She said suddenly: ‘We could go away. Shall we go away, Richard?’
‘Away from the villa? From the island?’
‘That’s what I meant.’
Wilding poured his own whisky, came back to stand behind her chair.
‘We’ll go anywhere you please, dearest. Anywhere and at any time. Tonight if you like.’
She sighed, a long, deep sigh.
‘You’re so – good to me. Of course I don’t want to leave here. Anyway, how could you? You’ve got the estate to run. You’re making headway at last.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t really matter. You come first.’
‘I might go away – by myself – just for a little.’
‘No, we’ll go together. I want you to feel looked after, someone beside you – always.’
‘You think I need a keeper?’ She began to laugh. It was slightly uncontrolled laughter. She stopped suddenly, hand to her mouth.
‘I want you to feel – always – that I’m there,’ said Wilding.
‘Oh, I do feel it – I do.’
‘We’ll go to Italy. Or to England, if you like. Perhaps you’re home-sick for England.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We won’t go anywhere. We’ll stay here. It would be the same wherever we went. Always the same.’
She slumped a little in her chair. Her eyes stared sombrely ahead of her. Then suddenly she looked up over her shoulder, up into Wilding’s puzzled, worried face.
‘Dear Richard,’ she said. ‘You are so wonderful to me. So patient always.’
He said softly: ‘So long as you understand that to me, nothing matters but you.’
‘I know that – oh, I do know it.’
He went on:
‘I hoped that you would be happy here, but I do realize that there’s very little – distraction.’
‘There’s Dr Knox,’ she said.
Her head turned swiftly towards the guest, and a sudden gay, impish smile flashed at him. He thought: ‘What a gay, what an enchanting creature she could be – has been.’
She went on: ‘And as for the island and the villa, it’s an earthly paradise. You said so once, and I believed you, and it’s true. It is an earthly paradise.’
‘Ah!’
‘But I can’t quite take it. Don’t you think, Dr Knox,’ – the slight staccato tempo returned – ‘that one has to be rather a strong character to stand up to paradise? Like those old Primitives, the blessed sitting in a row under the trees, wearing crowns – I always thought the crowns looked so heavy – casting down their golden crowns before the glassy sea – that’s a hymn, isn’t it? Perhaps God let them cast down the crowns because of the weight. It’s heavy to wear a crown all the time. One can have too much of everything, can’t one? I think –’ She got up, stumbled a little. ‘I think, perhaps, I’ll go back to bed. I think you’re right, Richard, perhaps I am feverish. But crowns are heavy. Being here is like a dream come true, only I’m not in the dream any more. I ought to be somewhere else, but I don’t know where. If only –’
She crumpled very suddenly, and Llewellyn, who had been waiting for it, caught her in time, relinquishing her a moment later to Wilding.
‘Better get her back to her bed,’ he advised crisply.
‘Yes, yes. And then I’ll telephone to the doctor.’
‘She’ll sleep it off,’ said Llewellyn.
Richard Wilding looked at him doubtfully.
Llewellyn said: ‘Let me help you.’
The two men carried the unconscious girl through the door by which she had entered the room. A short way along a corridor brought them to the open door of a bedroom. They laid her gently on the big carved wooden bed, with its hangings of rich dark brocade. Wilding went out into the corridor and called: ‘Maria – Maria.’
Llewellyn looked swiftly round the room.
He went through a curtained alcove into a bathroom, looked into the glass-panelled cupboard there, then came back to the bedroom.
Wilding was calling again: ‘Maria,’ impatiently.
Llewellyn moved over to the dressing-table.
A moment or two later Wilding came into the room, followed by a short, dark woman. The latter moved quickly across the room to the bed and uttered an exclamation as she bent over the recumbent girl.
Wilding said curtly:
‘See to your mistress. I will ring up the doctor.’
‘It is not necessary, señor. I know what to do. By tomorrow morning she will be herself again.’
Wilding, shaking his head, left the room reluctantly.
Llewellyn followed him, but paused in the doorway.
He said: ‘Where does she keep it?’
The woman looked at him; her eyelids flickered.
Then, almost involuntarily, her gaze shifted to the wall behind his head. He turned. A small picture hung there, a landscape in the manner of Corot. Llewellyn raised it from its nail. Behind it was a small wall safe of the old-fashioned type, where women used to keep their jewels, but which would hold little protection against a modern cracksman. The key was in the lock. Llewellyn pulled it gently open and glanced inside. He nodded and closed it again. His eyes met those of Maria in perfect comprehension.
He went out of the room and joined Wilding, who was just replacing the telephone on its cradle.
‘The doctor is out, at a confinement, I understand.’
‘I think,’ said Llewellyn, choosing his words carefully, ‘that Maria knows what to do. She has, I think, seen Lady Wilding like this before.’
‘Yes … yes … Perhaps you are right. She is very devoted to my wife.’
‘I saw that.’
‘Everybody loves her. She inspires love – love, and the wish to protect. All these people here have a great feeling for beauty, and especially for beauty in distress.’
‘And yet they are, in their way, greater realists than the Anglo-Saxon will ever be.’
‘Possibly.’
‘They don’t shirk facts.’
‘Do we?’
‘Very often. That is a beautiful room of your wife’s. Do you know what struck me about it? There was no smell of perfume such as many women delight in. Instead, there was only the fragrance of lavender and eau-de-Cologne.’
Richard Wilding nodded.
‘I know. I have come to associate lavender with Shirley. It brings back to me my days as a boy, the smell of lavender in my mother’s linen-cupboard. The fine white linen, and the little bags of lavender that she made and put there, clean, pure, all the freshness of spring. Simple country things.’
He sighed and looked up to see his guest regarding him with a look he could not understand.
‘I must go,’ said Llewellyn, holding out his hand.