When Lettice stirs, bodily misery
precedes emotion. Throbbing head, and tongue
thickened and sour, bring acute distress
before her memory stabs her.
The unfamiliar slanting of the light
between the heavy curtains, and the smell
of wine and dying flowers bring her awake.
Bewildered, she stares round, then, terrified,
she wraps her cloak about her, snatches up
her purse, and flees.
She fights her nausea and hails a cab.
Not till she pays the driver does she know
that one half crown is all that she has left.
She prays that she may slink upstairs unseen,
but meet Miss Hobley. In her cubicle
she tears off her white clothes, deep-stained with wine,
and yields herself to nausea.
The Warden comes, stern faced and scandalised.
Lettice lies prone, too wretched to look up.
Hulbert, she learns, has searched for her all night,
and is still searching,
distraught at what enquiries have revealed
of Bois Diego's post-Harrovian years.
Contact is made at last by telephone,
and Hulbert comes. She clings to him and sobs.
Her story tortures him her shame is his.
The days that follow offer no relief.
Hulbert is forced to rush from this to that,
buying equipment, fitting uniform,
taking instructions, signing documents,
while knowing his young sister is alone,
utterly wretched and disconsolate.
He snatches moments with her when he can;
these do not cheer him.
At last the very day he is to sail,
he takes her for the farewell jaunt - postponed
with such disaster. Tacitly their choice
avoids a concert. At the matinee
(chosen by Hulbert with more care than skill)
they sit preoccupied and deolate,
trying to find some respite from their grief,
and failing, while the players struth and mouth
in would-be funny tedium. They adjourn
to an hotel for tea. (The Chelsea rooms
are let for the duration. Hulbert's club
makes no provision for a lady guest.)
The room is vast and chilly, the tea smoked,
and the toast sogged. 'At least we are alone,'
says Hulbert with a sigh. 'We can talk here.'
He finds that she has planned a way of life
that horrifies him.
'But can't you see that I should worry less
if I could only leave you among friends..?'
'I simply can't go anywhere I'm known.
I must begin afresh.' 'It was my fault...'
'It wasn't, Hulbert. If I'd refused...'
She sees the tickets float in the epergne
and hears her foolish laughter. The tears brim.
'I've had such hours and hours to think and think.
It isn't only being such a fool
that dreadful night, that nightmare night...'
'My dear...'
'I've been so vain and selfish all along,
and so conceited.' 'Ah, don't cry, don't cry -'
'I need a new beginning. Let me work.
I've played at art and music.
And Blackwell's right: those sonnets are derived,
and more than somewhat stiled...' 'Lettice dear,
one question while we're still alone.' He sweats.
'You're sure you may not need to get advice
from some kind doctor, afer that bad night...'
