Soldiers’ Pay - William Faulkner (people reading books TXT) 📗

lane, crying on the shoulder of a man whose name was not Donald. Jones, the only one who had remarked the manner of her going, was for some reason he could not have named safely noncommittal. The rector stated fretfully that Cecily, who was at that moment kissing a man whose name was not Donald, should not have gone away at that time. But the other woman (I bet she’s mean as hell, thought Jones) interrupted again, saying that it was better so.

“But she should have gone to the station to meet him,” the rector stated with displeasure.

“No, no. Remember, he is sick. The less excitement the better for him. Besides, it is better for them to meet privately.”

“Ah, yes, quite right, quite right. Trust a woman in these things, Mr. Jones. And for that reason perhaps you had better wait also, don’t you think?”

“By all means, sir. I will wait and tell Miss Saunders why you went without her. She will doubtless be anxious to know.”

After the cab had called for them and gone Jones, still standing, stuffed his pipe with moody viciousness. He wandered aimlessly about the room, staring out the windows in turn, puffing his pipe; then pausing to push a dead match beneath a rug with his toe he crossed deliberately to the rector’s desk. He drew and closed two drawers before finding the right one.

The bottle was squat and black and tilted took the light pleasantly. He replaced it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. And just in time, too, for her rapid brittle steps crossed the veranda and he heard a motorcar retreating.

The door framed her fragile surprise. She remarked, “Oh! Where are the others?”

“What’s the matter? Have a puncture?” Jones countered nastily. Her eyes flew like birds and he continued: “The others? They went to the station, the railroad station. You know: where the trains come in. The parson’s son or something is coming home this afternoon. Fine news, isn’t it? But won’t you come in?”

She entered hesitant, watching him.

“Oh, come on in, sister, I won’t hurt you.”

“But why didn’t they wait for me?”

“They thought you didn’t want to go, I suppose. Hadn’t you left that impression?”

In the silence of the house was a clock like a measured respiration, and Emmy was faintly audible somewhere. These sounds reassured her and she entered a few steps. “You saw me go. Didn’t you tell them where I was?”

“Told them you went to the bathroom.”

She looked at him curiously, knowing in some way that he was not lying. “Why did you do that?”

“It was your business where you were going, not mine. If you wanted them to know you should have told them yourself.”

She sat alertly. “You’re a funny sort of a man, aren’t you?”

Jones moved casually, in no particular direction. “How funny?”

She rose. “Oh, I don’t know exactly⁠ ⁠… you don’t like me and yet you told a lie for me.”

“Hell, you don’t think I mind telling a lie, do you?”

She said with speculation:

“I wouldn’t put anything past you⁠—if you thought you could get any fun out of it.” Watching his eyes she moved toward the door.

The trousers hampered him but despite them his agility was amazing. But she was alert and her studied grace lent her muscular control and swiftness, and so it was a bland rubbed panel of wood that he touched. Her dress whipped from sight, he heard a key and her muffled laugh, derisive.

“Damn your soul,” he spoke in a quiet toneless emotion, “open the door.”

The wood was bland and inscrutable: baffling, holding up to him in its polished depths the fat white blur of his own face. Holding his breath he heard nothing beyond it save a clock somewhere.

“Open the door,” he repeated, but there was no sound. Has she gone away, or not? he wondered, straining his ears, bending to the bulky tweeded Narcissus of himself in the polished wood. He thought of the windows and walking quietly he crossed the room, finding immovable gauze wire. He returned to the center of the room without trying to muffle his steps and stood in a mounting anger, cursing her slowly. Then he saw the door handle move.

He sprang to it. “Open the door, you little slut, or I’ll kick your screens out.”

The lock clicked and he jerked the door open upon Emmy, his trousers over her arm, meeting him with her frightened antagonistic eyes.

“Where⁠—” began Jones, and Cecily stepped from the shadows, curtsying like a derisive flower.

“Checkmate, Mr. Jones.” Jones paraphrased the rector in a reedy falsetto. “Do you know⁠—”

“Yes,” said Cecily quickly, taking Emmy’s arm. “But tell us on the veranda.” She led the way and Jones followed in reluctant admiration. She and the baleful speechless Emmy preceding him sat arm in arm in a porch swing while afternoon sought interstices in soon-to-be lilac wistaria: afternoon flowed and ebbed upon them as they swung and their respective silk and cotton shins took and released sunlight in running planes.

“Sit down, Mr. Jones,” she continued, gushing. “Do tell us about yourself. We are so interested, aren’t we, Emmy dear?” Emmy was watchful and inarticulate, like an animal. “Emmy, dear Mr. Jones, has missed all of your conversation and admiring you as we all do⁠—we simply cannot help it, Mr. Jones⁠—she is naturally anxious to make up for it.”

Jones cupped a match in his palms and there were two little flames in his eyes, leaping and sinking to pin points.

“You are silent, Mr. Jones? Emmy and I both would like to hear some more of what you have learned about us from your extensive amatory career. Don’t we, Emmy darling?”

“No, I won’t spoil it for you,” Jones replied heavily. “You are on the verge of getting some firsthand information of your own. As for Miss Emmy, I’ll teach her sometime later, in private.”

Emmy continued to watch him with fierce dumb distrust. Cecily said: “At first hand?”

“Aren’t you being married tomorrow? You can learn from Oswald. He should certainly be able to tell you, traveling as he