The Greater Trumps by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

Christmas, and in the fortnight that had elapsed since the examination of the late Mr. Duncannon’s legacy the subject of the cards had cropped up several times between the two young people. Nancy had the natural, alert interest of youth, as Sybil had the—perhaps supernatural—vivid interest of age, and Henry’s occasional rather mysterious remarks had provoked it still more. She had, in fact, examined the cards by herself and re-read the entry in the catalogue, and looked up “Tarot” in the encyclopedia without being much more advanced. As she sat now coiled in front of the dining-room fire, playing gently with her lover’s fingers, at once stirred and soothed by the contact, she suddenly twisted round to face him in the deep chair to her right.
    â€œBut, Henry, dearest, what is it you mean?” she said. “You keep on talking of these cards as if they were important.”
    â€œSo they are,” Henry answered. “Exactly how important depends on you, perhaps.”
    Nancy sat up on her heels. “Henry,” she said, “are you teasing me or are you not? If you are, you’re not human at all; you’re a black-maned devil from Hell, and I’ve got engaged to you by the worst mistake that ever happened. And if you’re not, then show some pity, and leave off talking like a doctor about some bit of my inside that I don’t understand. How and why and when and where and what have I got to do with the cards? If you don’t tell me, I shall go straight down to father and say you’ve insulted me.”
    â€œThen you don’t know what you’d miss,” Henry said.
    Nancy threw out her arms. “O wretched me!” she cried dramatically. “Henry, if I pretend I don’t want to know, are you sure you’ll play up? You won’t take a mean advantage, will you?”
    â€œIf you really don’t want to know,” he told her, “I certainly won’t tell you. That’s the whole point. Do you really want to know?”
    â€œHave I bared my heart to have it mistrusted?” she said. “Must I pine away in an hour or so to persuade you? Or will it do if I sob myself to sleep on the spot? As I used not to say when we did Julius Caesar at school, if you don’t tell me, ‘Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.’ What a nasty little cad and cat Portia was—to squeeze it out of him like that! But I swear I’ll give myself a wound ‘here in the thigh’ unless you do tell me, and bleed to death all over your beautiful trousers.”
    He took her hand in his so strongly that her eyes changed to immediate gravity.
    â€œIf you want to know,” he said, “I will tell you what I can here, and the rest—there. If you can bear it.”
    â€œDo as you will,” she answered seriously. “If it’s no joke, then try me and let me go if I fail. At that,” she added with a sudden smile, “I think I won’t fail.”
    â€œThen bring the Tarot cards now, if you can,” he said. “But quietly. I don’t want the others to know.”
    â€œThey’re out—father and Ralph,” she answered. “I will go and get them,” and on the word was away from the room.
    For the few minutes that elapsed before she returned he stood looking absently before him, so that he did not at once hear her entrance, and her eyes took him in: his frown, his concentrated gaze, the hand that made slight unpurposed movements by his side. As she looked, she herself unconsciously disposed herself to meet him, and she came across the room to him with something in her of preparation, as if, clear and splendid, she came to her bridal. Nor did they smile as they met, though it was the first time in their mutual acquaintance that so natural a sweetness had been lacking. He took the cards from her, and then, laying his hand on her shoulder, lightly compelled her towards the