Jackson's Dilemma by Iris Murdoch Page B

as if he had forgotten her. Then he said, ‘Could you close the door?’
    Rosalind, who was standing nearest to it, closed it. She was thinking about what to say next.
    ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Oh yes, thanks—I hope I’m not in the way—’
    Edward turned, moving promptly upon his heel, and marched fast further down the hall into a dark corridor. Rosalind ran after him, mopping her eyes to remove the sunlight and the sudden tears with the back of her hands, she had no handkerchief. She emerged from the corridor into a large airy sunny kitchen.
    Edward had put the kettle on. Frowning, he was spooning coffee powder into mugs. His hand was trembling. Rosalind came nearer to the big well-scrubbed wooden table. She looked at his long hands and pale slim fingers. ‘Can I help?’
    ‘No.’ He put down the mugs and gazed at the kettle.
    Rosalind, suddenly feeling rather faint, said ‘Oh dear—’ and sat down on a chair.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes, yes. Oh Edward - I’m so - terribly sorry -’ She put a hand up to her throat.
    With a kind of military precision Edward was pouring the boiling water into the mugs. He said, ‘Milk and sugar?’ Rosalind nodded. He said, ‘Let’s go upstairs. Would you like to look at the pictures?’ He gave her a mug and left the kitchen carrying his own.
    Rosalind, holding her mug carefully, followed him up the stairs. She did not want to look at the pictures. She wanted to sit quietly beside Edward and talk to him. Pausing to sip the coffee she found it burning hot, and without milk and sugar.
    The gallery, established in the late eighteenth century, was a very long room with a shining parquet floor overlooking the garden. It contained a medley of pictures collected by various owners with various tastes. Edward had only lately, since the death of his father, been able to indulge his own taste. Rosalind put down her mug carefully on a window ledge behind a bowl of flowers. Flowers, which had been picked yesterday for the bride! She looked out at the sunlit garden, so immobile, so still, near to the house the big clipped box, a line of sentinels, the laburnum walk, then the great trees, receding into the distance, very old trees, oak and beech and chestnut and deodar, some of them four hundred years old or more. The absolute silence in the sunshine. Rosalind, her eyes dazzled, turned back to the room, picking up her mug and spilling some coffee on the glowing parquet. Hastily, looking about her, she mopped it up with her sleeve. Edward had gone, no he was a little way away down the room. Once again she felt faint. What was it now, that sudden startling pain: Marian could have owned all this, all of it, this garden, this house, these pictures, Edward.
    Edward, who had put his coffee down somewhere, was now returning towards her. She saw his face clearly, it was pale, almost white, gathered into a steel mask, his grim mouth, his lips pale, his eyelids, his hawkish nose. She tried to think quickly of something to say to him, and sudden words were put into her mouth.
    ‘I met Spencer in the meadow on the way.’
    Edward’s face changed. He said, ‘Yes, Spencer, that dear old chap.’ Then he said, ‘I bought a picture lately, a modern one, it’s down there.’
    She followed him, passing a brilliant Goya on the way. She only once had been in this gallery. Why? Perhaps because Marian was not interested in paintings.
     
    There was a sound. Someone had entered at the far end. It was Benet.
    Edward turned to go towards him. Rosalind paused then followed. She could see at once that Benet was displeased with her. The impression was momentary, but connected in some way with the pain she had felt by the window. Benet reached out his hand towards Edward. Edward with a slight hesitation took Benet’s hand. Benet with his other hand gripped Edward’s shoulder for a moment. Then they both drew apart.
    Benet said, ‘There’s no one downstairs. I thought