Taken at the Flood Read Online Free PDF Page A

nevertheless at what some people liked. Coffee, in Edna’s opinion, ought to be a pale cream colour, ever so sweet, with lots of milk!
    In the room overlooking the garden, the Cloades drank their coffee, black and without sugar. They had talked in a desultory way during dinner, of acquaintances met, of Lynn’s return, of the prospects of farming in the near future, but now, alone together, they were silent.
    Frances leaned back in her chair, watching her husband. Hewas quite oblivious of her regard. His right hand stroked his upper lip. Although Jeremy Cloade did not know it himself the gesture was a characteristic one and coincided with inner perturbation. Frances had not observed it very often. Once when Antony, their son, had been seriously ill as a child; once when waiting for a jury to consider their verdict; at the outbreak of war, waiting to hear the irrevocable words over the wireless; on the eve of Antony’s departure after embarkation leave.
    Frances thought a little while before she spoke. Their married life had been happy, but never intimate in so far as the spoken word went. She had respected Jeremy’s reserves and he hers. Even when the telegram had come announcing Antony’s death on active service, they had neither of them broken down.
    He had opened it, then he had looked up at her. She had said, “Is it—?”
    He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.
    They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said: “I wish I could help you, my dear.” And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: “It’s just as bad for you.” He had patted her shoulder: “Yes,” he said. “Yes…” Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man…saying as he did so, “There’s nothing to be said—nothing to be said….”
    She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in her—some ordinary common kindness had driedup. She was more efficient, more energetic than ever—people became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common sense….
    Jeremy Cloade’s finger moved along his upper lip again—irresolutely, searching. And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke.
    â€œIs anything the matter, Jeremy?”
    He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her.
    â€œWhat do you mean, Frances?”
    â€œI’m asking you if anything is the matter?”
    â€œWhat should be the matter?”
    â€œIt would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me.”
    She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.
    He said unconvincingly:
    â€œThere is nothing the matter—”
    She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.
    And just for a moment the imperturbable mask of his grey face slipped, and she caught a glimpse of such turbulent agony that she almost exclaimed aloud. It was only for a moment but she didn’t doubt what she had seen.
    She said quietly and unemotionally:
    â€œI think you had better tell me—”
    He sighed—a deep unhappy sigh.
    â€œYou will have to know, of course,” he said, “sooner or later.”
    And he added what was to her a very astonishing phrase.
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve made a bad bargain, Frances.”
    She went right past an implication she did not understand to attack hard facts.
    â€œWhat is it,” she said; “money?”
    She did not know why she put money first. There had been no special signs of financial stringency other than were