Death -- Fiction; Friendship -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Women novelists -- Fiction
For a second we stood opposed, and in that second I realized literally
for the first time (so dominating had her personality been) that she was
shorter than I. She was dwindling before my eyes. I found myself looking
down at her with almost brutal composure. That I had ever been afraid of
her was the marvel! For I was young, and she was elderly. I was strong,
and she was weak. Her bare arms were like sticks, but mine were round
and supple, and I could feel the blood tingle in them as my grip
tightened on the woodwork. She was only Anita Serle, the well-known
writer; but I was Jenny Summer, and Kent was needing me.
“Jenny—you will be sorry!” Her eyes and her voice were one threat. Such
eyes! Eyes whose pupils had dilated till the irids were mere threads
that encircled jealousy itself—jealousy black and bitter—jealousy that
had stolen upon us as the fog had done, obscuring, soiling, stifling
friend and enemy alike—jealousy of a gift and a great name, of a dead
woman and a living man and their year of happiness—jealousy beyond
reason, beyond pity—jealousy insatiable, already seeking out fresh food,
turning deliberately, vengefully, upon Kent and upon me.
I felt sick. I had never dreamed that there could be such feelings in
the world. And now she was going to Kent, to probe and lacerate and
poison—
“No!” I said.
Actually she believed that she could pass me!
I still held fast by the door-posts, and she did not use her hands. We
were silent and decorous, but for an instant our bodies fought. She was
pressed against me, panting—
“_No!_” I said.
Then she fell away, and without another word turned and went back into
the other room.
I saw Miss Howe whisper some question. There was an instant’s silence.
Then her answer came—
“Much better leave him alone. Yes—rather shaken—a heavy man like that.”
It was defeat. She was using my very words, because, for all her
fluency, she had none with which to cover it.
I was sorry. I felt a brute. But what else could I have done? I stood a
moment watching her recover herself. Then I went back to Kent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account