The Alien Read Online Free

house that is – to leave – to empty—It is a dream perhaps? I die in the sea or the snow – in a strange dream?’’
    Margaret drew away her hand, turning to Colin, who came forward slowly.
    â€œWe are all quite real,’’ she said, in the slow, rather loud voice the English use for speaking to foreigners. “We saw you outside and brought you in. This is not our house, but I won’t go into long explanations now. This is my husband, Colin Brentwood.’’
    â€œMr. Sudenic already knows that,’’ said Colin, icily.
    There was a heavy silence. Stephen and Ann were too surprised to move. Margaret looked at Colin with tired contempt. Boris waited, too polite to answer, or perhaps unable to command sufficient of the English language to sustain an argument.
    The uncomfortable silence was relieved by Mrs. Ogden, who took the clothes from Margaret’s arm and thrust them at her husband, who still waited near the door in a state of frozen astonishment.
    â€œOld friend or not,’’ she said, briskly, “the poor man needs to get those wet things off him or he’ll be in for pneumonia, and then where’ll we all be for neglecting him? Mr. Stephen, put this blanket round him and take him into the kitchen. You and Ogden between you can get him to strip and put on the things we looked out for him. Not that they’ll be much of a fit, but you’ll have to do your best. The sooner we’re all out of here now, the better, I’m thinking.
    I’m sorry if I seem a bit blunt, Mrs. Colin, but there’s things to be done now and Mr. Colin’ll have to do them, I reckon.’’
    She stopped speaking, out of breath, but as firm as ever. The people in the room obeyed her without question. Boris, giving Ann another smile and glance, meekly submitted to being draped in a blanket and led away. Ann went upstairs to restore order where Margaret and Mrs. Ogden had disarranged the drawers in their search for clothing. Colin and Margaret were left to themselves.
    As soon as the room was free of the others Colin went to the window and stood there with his back to his wife, staring at the empty sea. Margaret dropped into the nearest chair. Her face was suddenly cold, she felt sick, the room was spinning round her.
    â€œI think I’m going to faint,’’ she managed to say in a small clear voice, trying to get her head down between her knees.
    Colin was in time to prevent her slipping to the floor, though her recovery might have been quicker if she had indeed lain there. However, her collapse was brief and Colin was both helpful and quick in ministering to her. He found a few drops of brandy left in Stephen’s flask. The much-neglected tea, still surprisingly hot, he also forced down Margaret’s unwilling throat, in spite of her protest that she really would be sick if she drank it. She was not sick and presently was able to transfer herself with Colin’s help to one of the arm-chairs, where she lay back thankfully and shut her eyes.
    Colin watched her for a few minutes. His raging jealousy, suppressed, controlled, fought with futile argument, had, in the brief minutes of his learning Boris’s identity, exploded into rage and hate. For fifteen years he had fought a memory, a dream, an illusion, that had stood between him and his love. He had despaired of ever laying this ghost, who continued to possess his wife’s heart, to whom she always returned, who relentlessly, it seemed, defeated all his efforts and hopes to win her back into the real world of the living. For years now he had accepted defeat. It was impossible to fight a wraith, an idealized paragon, a romantic martyred hero. But the defeat, the humiliation, the plain natural jealousy had festered. To what extent, he was, just now, in the fury of release, incapable of understanding. He only knew that he had a real, a living, adversary at last and perhaps the power to