Chapter XXX.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Denis had been called, but in spite of the parted curtains he haddropped off again into that drowsy, dozy state when sleep becomesa sensual pleasure almost consciously savoured. In thiscondition he might have remained for another hour if he had notbeen disturbed by a violent rapping at the door."Come in," he mumbled, without opening his eyes. The latchclicked, a hand seized him by the shoulder and he was rudelyshaken."Get up, get up!"His eyelids blinked painfully apart, and he saw Mary standingover him, bright-faced and earnest."Get up!" she repeated. "You must go and send the telegram.Don't you remember?""O Lord!" He threw off the bed-clothes; his tormentor retired.Denis dressed as quickly as he could and ran up the road to thevillage post office. Satisfaction glowed within him as hereturned. He had sent a long telegram, which would in a fewhours evoke an answer ordering him back to town at once--onurgent business. It was an act performed, a decisive step taken--and he so rarely took decisive steps; he felt pleased withhimself. It was with a whetted appetite that he came in tobreakfast."Good-morning," said Mr. Scogan. "I hope you're better.""Better?""You were rather worried about the cosmos last night."Denis tried to laugh away the impeachment. "Was I?" he lightlyasked."I wish," said Mr. Scogan, "that I had nothing worse to prey onmy mind. I should be a happy man.""One is only happy in action," Denis enunciated, thinking of thetelegram.He looked out of the window. Great florid baroque clouds floatedhigh in the blue heaven. A wind stirred among the trees, andtheir shaken foliage twinkled and glittered like metal in thesun. Everything seemed marvellously beautiful. At the thoughtthat he would soon be leaving all this beauty he felt a momentarypang; but he comforted himself by recollecting how decisively hewas acting."Action," he repeated aloud, and going over to the sideboard hehelped himself to an agreeable mixture of bacon and fish.Breakfast over, Denis repaired to the terrace, and, sittingthere, raised the enormous bulwark of the "Times" against thepossible assaults of Mr. Scogan, who showed an unappeased desireto go on talking about the Universe. Secure behind the cracklingpages, he meditated. In the light of this brilliant morning theemotions of last night seemed somehow rather remote. And what ifhe had seen them embracing in the moonlight? Perhaps it didn'tmean much after all. And even if it did, why shouldn't he stay?He felt strong enough to stay, strong enough to be aloof,disinterested, a mere friendly acquaintance. And even if heweren't strong enough..."What time do you think the telegram will arrive?" asked Marysuddenly, thrusting in upon him over the top of the paper.Denis started guiltily. "I don't know at all," he said."I was only wondering," said Mary, "because there's a very goodtrain at 3.27, and it would be nice if you could catch it,wouldn't it?""Awfully nice," he agreed weakly. He felt as though he weremaking arrangements for his own funeral. Train leaves Waterloo3.27. No flowers...Mary was gone. No, he was blowed if he'd lethimself be hurried down to the Necropolis like this. He wasblowed. The sight of Mr. Scogan looking out, with a hungryexpression, from the drawing-room window made him precipitatelyhoist the "Times" once more. For a long while he kept ithoisted. Lowering it at last to take another cautious peep athis surroundings, he found himself, with what astonishment!confronted by Anne's faint, amused, malicious smile. She wasstanding before him,--the woman who was a tree,--the swayinggrace of her movement arrested in a pose that seemed itself amovement."How long have you been standing there?" he asked, when he haddone gaping at her."Oh, about half an hour, I suppose," she said airily. "You wereso very deep in your paper--head over ears--I didn't like todisturb you.""You look lovely this morning," Denis exclaimed. It was thefirst time he had ever had the courage to utter a personal remarkof the kind.Anne held up her hand as though to ward off a blow. "Don'tbludgeon me, please." She sat down on the bench beside him. Hewas a nice boy, she thought, quite charming; and Gombauld'sviolent insistences were really becoming rather tiresome. "Whydon't you wear white trousers?" she asked. "I like you so muchin white trousers.""They're at the wash," Denis replied rather curtly. This white-trouser business was all in the wrong spirit. He was justpreparing a scheme to manoeuvre the conversation back to theproper path, when Mr. Scogan suddenly darted out of the house,crossed the terrace with clockwork rapidity, and came to a haltin front of the bench on which they were seated."To go on with our interesting conversation about the cosmos," hebegan, "I become more and more convinced that the various partsof the concern are fundamentally discrete...But would you mind,Denis, moving a shade to your right?" He wedged himself betweenthem on the bench. "And if you would shift a few inches to theleft, my dear Anne...Thank you. Discrete, I think, was what Iwas saying.""You were," said Anne. Denis was speechless.They were taking their after luncheon coffee in the library whenthe telegram arrived. Denis blushed guiltily as he took theorange envelope from the salver and tore it open. "Return atonce. Urgent family business." It was too ridiculous. As if hehad any family business! Wouldn't it be best just to crumple thething up and put it in his pocket without saying anything aboutit? He looked up; Mary's large blue china eyes were fixed uponhim, seriously, penetratingly. He blushed more deeply than ever,hesitated in a horrible uncertainty."What's your telegram about?" Mary asked significantly.He lost his head, "I'm afraid," he mumbled, "I'm afraid thismeans I shall have to go back to town at once." He frowned atthe telegram ferociously."But that's absurd, impossible," cried Anne. She had beenstanding by the window talking to Gombauld; but at Denis's wordsshe came swaying across the room towards him."It's urgent," he repeated desperately."But you've only been here such a short time," Anne protested."I know," he said, utterly miserable. Oh, if only she couldunderstand! Women were supposed to have intuition."If he must go, he must," put in Mary firmly."Yes, I must." He looked at the telegram again for inspiration."You see, it's urgent family business," he explained.Priscilla got up from her chair in some excitement. "I had adistinct presentiment of this last night," she said. "A distinctpresentiment.""A mere coincidence, no doubt," said Mary, brushing Mrs. Wimbushout of the conversation. "There's a very good train at 3.27."She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "You'll have nicetime to pack.""I'll order the motor at once." Henry Wimbush rang the bell.The funeral was well under way. It was awful, awful."I am wretched you should be going," said Anne.Denis turned towards her; she really did look wretched. Heabandoned himself hopelessly, fatalistically to his destiny.This was what came of action, of doing something decisive. Ifonly he'd just let things drift! If only..."I shall miss your conversation," said Mr. Scogan.Mary looked at the clock again. "I think perhaps you ought to goand pack," she said.Obediently Denis left the room. Never again, he said to himself,never again would he do anything decisive. Camlet, West Bowlby,Knipswich for Timpany, Spavin Delawarr; and then all the otherstations; and then, finally, London. The thought of the journeyappalled him. And what on earth was he going to do in Londonwhen he got there? He climbed wearily up the stairs. It wastime for him to lay himself in his coffin.The car was at the door--the hearse. The whole party hadassembled to see him go. Good-bye, good-bye. Mechanically hetapped the barometer that hung in the porch; the needle stirredperceptibly to the left. A sudden smile lighted up hislugubrious face."'It sinks and I am ready to depart,'" he said, quoting Landorwith an exquisite aptness. He looked quickly round from face toface. Nobody had noticed. He climbed into the hearse.