Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online

Rosamond might or might not hold the secret origin of day and night, but if they apparently did then they apparently did, and it would be silly to deny it and equally silly not to relish it. Sir Bernard had never said this in so many words. But the atmosphere which he created was one in which such spiritual truths could thrive unhindered, and their growth depended upon their own instinctive strength.
    Serenely unconscious of what he owed, Philip felt his own serious growth wiser than that cool air of gracious scepticism. He thought his passion was hidden from it as from the sun, when in fact it throve in it as in the soft rains. He said nothing of Rosamond’s eyes—which certainly were not, to Sir Bernard, anything remarkable—to his father, and supposed that the unformulated gospel they taught him was also a secret. He said nothing of them to anyone indeed, not having, nor caring to have, that tendency towards talk which marked his future brother-in-law. Roger, out of sheer interest, had given him every opportunity, and was rather disappointed that not one was taken. “I’m sure I talked enough about you,” he complained to Isabel.
    â€œYou’re more interested in metaphysics,” she said. “Philip’s just a believer; you’re a theologian.”
    â€œI’ve a more complex matter to study,” he said. “If I were a poet I would make the Matter of Isabel equal to the Matter of France and the Matter of Britain.”
    â€œMy honour wars with my credulity,” she answered. “I’m not really more interesting than Rosamond but I like to think I am.”
    â€œI don’t think Sir Bernard approves of Rosamond,” Roger said meditatively. “Why not, do you suppose? Can he really not think her good enough? Does he secretly adore Philip? My son, my son, and all that?”
    Isabel was silent for a minute; then she said: “I’m awfully tempted to tell you, Roger, but perhaps I won’t. I do think I know what he feels, but it’d be rather hard on Rosamond to talk of it, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œDevil!” said Roger. “You’d see your husband die of an insatiable curiosity rather than sully your integrity by giving him a crust of fact. You’re as bad as the other Isabella—the one in Measure for Measure; you’re avaricious of chastity. I don’t want to be nice; I want to be malign and malevolent—and omniscient. Very well; have it your own way. I shall now go and lecture on Pure Women in Literature, with sub-sardonic allusions to you, Shakespeare’s Isabella, and Mr. Richardson’s Pamela. And I shall be back, in a bad temper, to tea.”
    It was to tea on the same day that, when he did return, he found Philip had invited himself, having abandoned the distracted office for an hour with Rosamond. Isabel had come in from an afternoon’s walk, and when they all met in the drawing-room it was she who said: “Roger, you’re looking very serious. What’s the matter, darling? Didn’t they remember who Pamela was, or did they think she was nice, or what?”
    Ingram stretched himself in an armchair. “Have any of you,” he asked, “seen an evening paper?”
    â€œNot since two o’clock,” Philip said. “Is there something important?”
    â€œThat,” Roger answered, “depends on what you think important. There’s an African proclamation.”
    â€œWhat!” Philip was so surprised that his eyes left Rosamond’s hair to rest on the newspaper that Roger was holding. “Is there really? What does it say?”
    â€œIt says that the Socratic method is done for,” Roger said seriously. A small frown appeared on Rosamond’s face and went away again. Philip, without frowning, conveyed the impression of a frown and said: “Do be serious. It’s important to me to know. What does it say?”
    â€œIt says exactly what