or else! Edward heard again the sloshing sneakers, her quick panting breath. “My dog’s in this thicket somewhere,” she gasped. “He was frightened. He swam ashore and ran off . . . His name’s Murphy.”
Edward made a contemptuous sound, a sort of snort of disbelief. He heard her calling: “Murphy! Murphy!” And hoped that she had turned back. Cutting across the rose garden to the brick walk, he saw Easterly glowing with lights. As he hurried up the steps and across the verandah to the door, the girl caught up with him again.
Eithne was warming herself at the fire in the hallway. She held a cup of coffee which she stirred slowly, the gesture expressing annoyance, indignation and resolve. She was wearing her furs. A pillbox the size of a cake of Pear’s Soap was poised behind the silver upsurge of her pompadour.
“I’m driving back to New York tonight,” she said before Edward could explain. “I can’t take the responsibility . . .”
She broke off, suddenly aware of her brother’s extra-ordinary appearance and of the girl who had come in with him.
“Edward! Where on earth . . .?”
Edward veered away from the word “accident.” He used a strangely dated substitute: “There’s been a . . . mishap. A car overturned on the lake road. A man’s hurt. Badly, I’m afraid.”
He made an awkward gesture, glancing quickly at the shivering girl.
“My sister, Mrs. Wade.”
The girl would have offered her hand but the coffee cup presented an obstacle. She smiled at Eithne instead. She had very white teeth and Edward was aware of a flash of mischief and good humor.
“My name’s Megan,” she said. “Megan Donahue. I wonder could I stand in front of the fire? I’m frozen.”
Eithne moved quickly.
“Of course. Edward . . .?”
It was a cry for help, but Edward had no intention of coming to his sister’s rescue. He snatched up the telephone and while he struggled with the mysteries of area codes and information the two women watched him, Eithne with amazement as if he had changed character, the girl with shining eyes as if she were looking at an archangel.
It was after midnight when he finally went to bed. Eithne had gone taking the girl with her, the village doctor had transferred the wounded man to the nearest hospital and now Easterly was silent, the long wings dark. The lake mist had thickened; a muffling fog shrouded the house, dripped from the branches of trees, drenched the walks. Edward was alone.
This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? Well, wasn’t it the whole purpose of his flight from Washington? To be alone? In the hospital, there was always a coming and going of doctors and nurses, someone to watch him, quick to spring at him with the everlasting query: “Are you feeling better, sir?” Better! Hah! Their real concern was with the window six stories above the sidewalk where he had been found leaning on the sill staring down with what might have been a purpose. There had been panic in the corridors, an urgent clamor of voices paging Dr. Brandt over the loud speakers.
“Dr. Brandt, please. Emergency!”
“Surely, Edward,” the startled physician said, “you weren’t thinking of jumping out? You know, you aren’t the only man to have lost his wife and children tragically. Better face up to it at once, before it sinks its fangs into your mind.” And Edward had said: “I’ll deal with it in my own way, in my own good time. Right now, I want very much to go home to Easterly.”
And here he was.
Halfway upstairs he noticed that he had left the library lamp lighted. He went back and turned it off, remembering that when he was a child he had been afraid of the dark. His father was contemptuous of such cowardice and ignored it, but his mother used to tiptoe down as soon as her husband was asleep and switch on the library lamp. A faint wedge of light would appear on the ceiling of Edward’s room at the top of the stairs and the terrified boy would come out from under the bedclothes.
When he was seven his father said to him: “I know your mother gives in to you. Perhaps she doesn’t care if you grow up to be a coward. But I do. You can’t expect me to be your friend until you’ve conquered this fear of the dark. When you have, tell me. I’ll believe you. One thing I’m sure of: you’re honest.” And that night, as soon as his mother had performed her merciful deed, Edward slipped down and turned off the lamp.
This was the way it had been ever since; whenever he feared anything he forced himself to grope for courage in the total dark. Courage. If you could kindle even a pinpoint of that light you could swing it ahead of you like an electric flash and so keep to the path. This was why he had left the hospital and the starched guardians of his safety, talking his way out with such disarming logic and cheerful charm that the entire staff agreed that it was the thing to do. A week’s rest in the country, then back to his desk! It remained for the Press to accept this. There had been rumors of a mental breakdown. Suspicious members of the Opposition bayed like hunting dogs across the fields of conjecture . . . And already a pair of reporters was at his heels! The rest couldn’t be far behind . . .
He climbed the stairs slowly, seeing well enough by the last ruddy flicker of the fire in the hallway. A log broke in two and collapsed in a shower of sparks. Then there was only the rustle of hot ashes on the hearth.
His bedroom had been furnished for the heir to millions, and Edward had always disliked it . . . the heavy mahogany bed with its plump, dark red coverlets, the vast bureau, the velvet curtains . . . all of it stuffy and melancholy. There was a scent of camphor and in the adjoining bathroom a lingering trace of lavender. Mrs. Littlefield had filled the racks with linen hand-towels and over-sized bath-towels. But she hadn’t turned back the bedclothes or unpacked Edward’s suitcase; these were menial duties once the privilege of a proud dynasty of family servants. Nor had Mr. Littlefield laid a fire; he had dumped an armload of kindling and a few pine logs on the hearth and left it at that.
Edward made ready for bed, ignoring his reflection in the bathroom mirror. This was a habit of his. He disliked being reminded that his face was a sort of Party trademark, like the elephant and the donkey. Someone had said of him that he was larger than life and twice as real . . . a cartoonist’s delight. He scrubbed and splashed now as if to rid himself of the lake water that somehow seemed unclean because that fellow had bled into it.
He lay for a long time testing and disciplining his thoughts. The urge to kill himself hadn’t recurred since that moment in the wood and his flight to the end of the dock. He had been startled out of his almost-realized intention by the girl’s voice, and ever since had been relieved of the agony.
Eithne had decided that he was past the danger of cracking up, and that she could relax. Only first she must see to it that this girl didn’t try to spend the night . . . she was obviously the sort who would, at the drop of a hat. And to Edward’s surprise, his sister had suddenly switched to cordiality: “I’ll drive you back to New York, Miss Donahue. You can wear one of my coats. And Edward will let you have a shirt and a pair of socks. Mrs. Littlefield will show you where you can change. Only don’t be too long. It’s quite late.”
“Thank you,” the girl said, and followed the caretaker’s wife.
“She can’t stay here, of course,” Eithne said.
“Why not?”
Eithne shrugged. “She’s very pretty.”
“Is
