§ 10
To Rose, the time between the death of Caroline and the coming of spring was like an invalid’s convalescence. She felt a languor as though she had been ill, and a kind of content as though she were temporarily free from cares. She knew that Henrietta and Charles Batty often met, but she did not wish to know how Charles had succeeded in preventing her escape: she did not try to connect Christabel’s illness with Henrietta’s return; she enjoyed unquestioningly her rich feeling of possession in the presence of the girl, who was much on her dignity, very well behaved, but undeniably aloof. She had not yet forgiven her aunt for that episode in the gipsies’ hollow, but it did not matter. Rose could tell herself without any affectation of virtue that she had hoped for no benefit for herself; looking back she saw that even what might be called her sin had been committed chiefly for Francis’s sake, only she had not sinned enough.
But for the present she need not think of him. He had gone away, she heard, and she could ride over the bridge without the fear of meeting him and with the feeling that the place was more than ever hers. It was gloriously empty of any claim but its own. To gallop across the fields, to ride more slowly on some height with nothing between her and great massy clouds of unbelievable whiteness, to feel herself relieved of an immense responsibility, was like finding the new world she had longed for. She wished sincerely that Francis would not come back; she wished that, riding one day, she might find Sales Hall blotted out, leaving no sign, no trace, nothing but earth and fresh spikes of green.
Day by day she watched the advance of spring. The larches put out their little tassels, celandines opened their yellow eyes, the smell of the gorse was her youth wafted back to her and she shook her head and said she did not want it. This maturity was better: she had reached the age when she could almost dissociate things from herself and she found them better and more beautiful. She needed this consolation, for it seemed that her personal relationships were to be few and shadowy; conscious in herself of a capacity for crystallizing them enduringly, they yet managed to evade her; it was some fault, some failure in herself, but not knowing the cause she could not cure it and she accepted it with the apparent impassivity which was, perhaps, the origin of the difficulty.
And capable as she was of love, she was incapable of struggling for it. She wanted Henrietta’s affection; she wanted to give every happiness to that girl, but she could not be different from herself, she could not bait the trap. And it seemed that Henrietta might be finding happiness without her help, or at least without realizing that it was she who had given Charles his chance. She had rejected her plan of taking Henrietta away: it was better to leave her in the neighbourhood of Charles, for he was not a Francis Sales, and if Henrietta could once see below his queer exterior, she would never see it again except to laugh at it with an understanding beyond the power of irritation; and she was made to have a home, to be busy about small, important things, to play with children and tyrannize over a man in the matter of socks and collars, to be tyrannized over by him in the bigger affairs of life.
And with Henrietta settled, Rose would at last be free to take that journey which, like everything else, had eluded her so far. She would be free but for Sophia who seemed in these days pathetically subdued and frail; but Sophia, Rose decided, could stay with Henrietta for a time, or one of the elderly cousins would be glad to take up a temporary residence in Nelson Lodge.
She was excited by the prospect of her freedom and sometimes, as though she were doing something wrong, she secretly carried the big atlas to her bedroom and pored over the maps. There were places with names like poetry and she meant to see them all. She moved already in a world of greater space and fresher air; her body was rejuvenated, her mind recovered from its weariness and when, on an April day, she came across Francis Sales in one of his own fields, it was a sign of her condition that her first thought was of Henrietta and not of herself. He had returned and Henrietta was again in danger, though one of another kind.
She stopped her horse, thinking firmly, Whatever happens, she shall not marry him: he is not good enough. She said: “Good morning,” in that cool voice which made him think of churches, and he stood, stroking the horse’s nose, looking down and making no reply.
“I’ve been away,” he said at last.
“I know. When did you come back?”
“Last night. I’ve been to Canada to see her people. I thought they’d like to know about her and she would have liked it, too.”
A small smile threatened Rose’s mouth. It seemed rather late to be trying to please Christabel.
“I didn’t hope,” he went on quietly, “to have this luck so soon. I’ve been wanting to see you, to tell you something. I wanted to get things cleared up.”
“What things?”
He looked up. “About Henrietta.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Not for you, perhaps, but there is for me. You were quite right that day. I went home and I made up my mind to break my word to her. I’d made it up before Christabel became so ill. I wanted you to know that. I couldn’t have left her that night—perhaps you hadn’t realized I’d meant to—but anyhow I couldn’t have left her, and I wouldn’t have done it if I could. You were perfectly right.”
Rose moved a little in her saddle. “And yet I had no right to be,” she said. “You and I—”
“Ah,” he said quickly, “you and I were different. I don’t blame myself for that, but with Henrietta it was just devilry, sickness, misery. Don’t,” he commanded, “dare to compare our—our love with that.”
“No,” she said, “no, I don’t think of it at all. It has dropped back where it came from and I don’t know where that is. I don’t think of it any more, but thank you for telling me about Henrietta. Good-bye.”
She moved on, but his voice followed her. “I never loved her.”
She stopped but did not turn. “I know that.”
“Yes, but I wanted to tell you.” He was at the horse’s head again. “I don’t think much of the way those people are keeping your bridle. There’s rust on the curb chain. Look at it. It’s disgraceful! And I’d like to tell you that I tried to make it up to Christabel at the last. Too late—but she was happy. Good-bye. Tell those people they ought to be ashamed of themselves.”
“I suppose we all ought to be,” Rose said wearily.
“Some of us are,” he replied. “And,” he hesitated, “you won’t stop riding here now I’ve come back?”
“Of course not. It’s the habit of a lifetime.”
“I shan’t worry you.”
She laughed frankly. “I’m not afraid of that.”
She was immune, she told herself, she could not be touched, yet she knew she had been touched already: she was obliged to think of him. For the first time in her knowledge of him he had not grumbled, he was like a repentant child, and she realized that he had suffered an experience unknown to her, a sense of sin, and the fact gave him a certain superiority and interest in her eyes.
She went home but not as she had set forth, for she seemed to hear the jingle of her chains.
At luncheon Henrietta appeared in a new hat and an amiable mood. She was going, she said casually, to a concert with Charles Batty.
“I didn’t know there was one,” Rose said. “Where is it?”
“Oh, not in Radstowe. We’re going,” Henrietta said reluctantly, “to Wellsborough.”
But that name seemed to have no association for Aunt Rose. She said, “Oh, yes, they have very good concerts there, and I hope Charles will like your hat.”
“I don’t suppose he will notice it,” Henrietta murmured. She felt grateful for her aunt’s forgetfulness, and she said, with an enthusiasm she had not shown for a long time, “You look lovely to-day, Aunt Rose, as if something nice had happened.”
Rose laughed and said, “Nonsense, Henrietta,” in a manner faintly reminiscent of Caroline. And she added quickly, against the invasion of her own thoughts, “And as for Charles, he notices much more than one would think.”
“Oh, I’ve found that out,” Henrietta grieved. “I don’t think people ought to notice—well, that one’s nose turns up.”
“It depends how it does it. Yours is very satisfactory.”
They sparkled at each other, pleased at the ease of their intercourse and quite unaware that these personalities also were reminiscent of the Caroline and Sophia tradition of compliment.
Sophia, drooping over the table, said vaguely, “Yes, very satisfactory,” but she hardly knew to what Rose had referred. She lived in her own memories, but she tried to disguise her distraction and it was always safe to agree with Rose: she had good judgment, unfailing taste. “Rose,” she said more brightly, “I’d forgotten. Susan tells me that Francis Sales has come home.”
Rose said “Yes,” and after the slightest pause, she added, “I saw him this morning.” She did not look at Henrietta. She felt with something like despair that this had occurred at the very moment when they seemed to be re-establishing their friendship, and now Henrietta would be reminded of the unhappy past. She did not look across the table, but, to her astonishment, she heard the girl’s voice with trouble, enmity and anger concentrated in its control, saying quickly, “So that’s the nice thing that’s happened!”
“Very nice,” Sophia murmured. “Poor Francis! He must have been glad to see you.”
Rose’s eyes glanced over Henrietta’s face with a look too proud to be called disdain: she was doubly shocked, first by the girl’s effrontery and then by the truth in her words. She had indeed been feeling indefinitely happy and ignoring the cause. She was, even now, not sure of the cause. She did not know whether it was the change in Francis or the jingling of the chains still sounding in her ears, but there had been a lightness in her heart which had nothing to do with the sense of that approaching freedom on which she had been counting.
She turned to Sophia as though Henrietta had not spoken. “Yes, I think he was glad to see a friend. He has been to Canada to see Christabel’s family. No, he didn’t say how he was, but I thought he looked rather old.”
“Ah, poor boy,” Sophia said. “I think, Rose dear, it would be kind to ask him here.”
“Oh, he knows he can come when he likes,” Rose said.
On the other side of the table Henrietta was shaking delicately. She could only have got relief by inarticulate noises and insanely violent movements. She hated Francis Sales, she hated Rose and Sophia and Charles Batty. She would not go to the concert—yes, she would go and make Charles miserable. She was enraged at the folly of her own remark, at Rose’s self-possession, and at her possible possession of Francis Sales. She could not unsay what she had said and, having said it, she did not know how to go on living with Aunt Rose; but she was going to Wellsborough again and this time she need not come back: yet she must come back to see Francis Sales. And though there was no one in the world to whom she could express the torment of her mind she could, at least, make Charles unhappy.
Rose and Sophia were chatting pleasantly, and Henrietta pushed back her chair. “Will you excuse me? I have to catch a train.”
Rose inclined her head: Sophia said, “Yes, dear, go. Where did you say you were going?”
“To Wellsborough.”
“Ah, yes. Caroline and I—Be careful to get into a ladies’ carriage, Henrietta.”
“I’m going with Charles Batty,” she said dully.
“Ah, then, you will be safe.”
Safe! Yes, she was perfectly safe with Charles. He would sit with his hands hanging between his knees and stare. She was sick of him and, if she dared, she would whisper during the music; at any rate, she would shuffle her feet and make a noise with the programme. And to-morrow she would emulate her aunt and waylay Francis Sales. There would be no harm in copying Aunt Rose, a pattern of conduct! She had done it before, she would do it again and they would see which one of them was to be victorious at the last.
She fulfilled her intentions. Charles, who had been flourishing under the kindness of her friendship, was puzzled by her capriciousness, but he did not question her. He was learning to accept mysteries calmly and to work at them in his head. She shuffled her feet and he pretended not to hear: she crackled her programme and he smiled down at her. This was maddening, yet it was a tribute to her power. She could do what she liked and Charles would love her; he was a great possession; she did not know what she would do without him.
As they ate their rich cakes in a famous teashop, Charles talked incessantly about the music, and when at last he paused, she said indifferently, “I didn’t hear a note.”
Mildly he advised her not to wear such tight shoes.
“Tight!” She looked down at them. “I had them made for me!”
“You seemed to be uncomfortable,” he said.
“I was thinking, thinking, thinking.”
“What about?”
“Things you wouldn’t understand, Charles. You’re too good.”
“I dare say,” he murmured.
“You’ve never wanted to murder anyone.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Who?”
“That Sales fellow.”
Her eyelids quivered, but she said boldly, “Because of me?”
“No, of course not. Making noises at concerts. Shooting birds. I’ve told you so before.”
“He’s been to Canada.”
“I know.”
“But he has come back.”
“Well, I suppose he had to come back some day.”
“And I hate Aunt Rose.”
“What a pity,” Charles said, taking another cake.
“Why a pity?”
“Beautiful woman.”
“Oh, yes, everybody thinks so, till they know her.”
“I know her and I think she’s adorable.”
The word was startling from his lips. Charles, too, she exclaimed inwardly. Was Aunt Rose even to come between her and Charles?
“But of course”—he remembered his lesson—“you’re the most beautiful and the best woman in the world.”
“I’m not a woman at all,” she said angrily: “I’m a fiend.”
“Yes, to-day; but you won’t be to-morrow. You’ll feel different to-morrow.”
He had, she reflected, a gift of prophecy. “Yes, I shall,” she said softly, “I’m stupid. It will be all right to-morrow. I shan’t even be angry with Aunt Rose and you’ve been an angel to me. I shall never forget you.”
He said nothing. He seemed very much interested in his cake.
And because she foresaw that her anger towards Aunt Rose would soon be changed to pity, she apologized to her that night. “I’m afraid I was rude to you at luncheon.”
“Were you? Oh, not rude, Henrietta. Perhaps rather foolish and indiscreet. You should think before you speak.”
This admonition was not what Henrietta expected, and she said, “That’s just what I was doing. You mean I ought to be quiet when I’m thinking.”
“Well, yes, that would be even better.”
“Then, Aunt Rose, I should never speak at all when I’m with you.”
“You haven’t talked to me for a long time.”
She made a gesture like her father’s—impatient, hopeless. “How can I?” she demanded. There was too much between them: the figure of Francis Sales was too solid.
She set out as she had intended the next afternoon. It was full spring-time now and Radstowe was gay and sweet with flowering trees. The delicate rose of the almond blossom had already faded to a fainting pink and fallen to the ground, and the laburnum was weeping golden tears which would soon drop to the pavements and blacken there; the red and white hawthorns were all out, and Henrietta’s daily walks had been punctuated by ecstatic halts when she stood under a canopy of flower and leaf and drenched herself in scent and colour, or peeped over garden fences to see tall tulips springing up out of the grass; but to-day she did not linger.
It seemed a long time since she had crossed the river, yet the only change was in the new green of the trees splashing the side of the gorge. The gulls were still quarrelling for food on the muddy banks, children and perambulators, horses and carts, were passing over the bridge as on her first day in Radstowe, but there was now no Francis Sales on his fine horse. The sun was bright but clouds were being blown by a wind with a sharp breath, and she went quickly lest it should rain before her business was accomplished. She had no fear of not finding Francis Sales: in such things her luck never failed her, and she came upon him even sooner than she had expected in the outermost of his fields.
He stood beside the gate, scrutinizing a flock of sheep and lambs and talking to the shepherd, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps on the road. She smiled sweetly: rather stiffly he raised his hand to his hat and in that moment she recognized that he had no welcome for her. He had changed; he was grave though he was not sullen, and she said to herself with her ready bitterness, “Ah, he has reformed, now that there’s no need. That’s what they all do.”
But her smile did not fade. She leaned over the gate in a friendly manner and asked him about the lambs. How old were they? She hoped he would not have them killed: they were too sweet. She had never touched one in her life. Why did they get so ugly afterwards? It was hard to believe those little things with faces like kittens, or like flowers, were the children of their lumpy mothers. “Do you think I could catch one if I came inside?” she asked.
“Come inside,” he said, “but the shepherd shall catch one for you.”
She stroked the curly wool, she pulled the apprehensive ears, she uttered absurdities and, glancing up to see if Sales were laughing at her charming folly, she saw that he was examining his flock with the practical interest of a farmer. He was apparently considering some technical point; he had not been listening to her at all. She hated that lamb, she hoped he would kill it and all the rest, and she decided to eat mutton in future with voracity.
“I was going to pick primroses,” she said. “Are there any in these fields?” “I don’t know. Can you spare me a few minutes? I want to speak to you.”
Her heart, which had been thumping with a sickening slowness, quickened its beats. Perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps his serious manner was that of a great occasion, and she saw herself returning to Nelson Lodge and treating her Aunt Rose with gentle tact.
“Shall we sit on the gate?” she asked.
“I’d rather walk across the field. I’ve been wanting to see you—since that night. I owe you an apology.”
She dared not speak for fear of making a mistake, and she waited, walking slowly beside him, her eyes downcast.
“An apology—for the whole thing,” he said.
She looked up. “What whole thing?”
“The way I behaved with you.”
“Oh, that! I don’t see why you should apologize,” she said.
“It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even decent.”
“But it was a sort of habit with you, wasn’t it?” she said commiseratingly, and had the happiness of seeing his face flush. “I quite understand. And we were both amused.”
“I wasn’t amused,” he said, “not a bit, and I’m sorry I behaved as I did. You were so young—and so pretty. Well, it’s no good making excuses, but I couldn’t rest until I’d seen you and—humbled myself.”
“Did Aunt Rose tell you to say this?” she asked.
“Rose? Of course not. Why should she?”
“She seems to have an extraordinary power.”
“Yes, she has,” he said simply.
“And have you humbled yourself to her, too?”
“No. With her,” he said slowly, “there was no need.”
“I see.” She laughed up at him frankly. “You know, I never took it very seriously. I’m sorry the thought of it has troubled you.”
He went on, ignoring her lightness, and determined to say everything. “I meant to meet you that night and tell you what I’m telling you now; but Christabel was very ill and I couldn’t leave her. I hope”—this was difficult—“I hope you didn’t get into any sort of mess.”
“That night?” She seemed to be thinking back to it. “That night—no—I went to a concert with Charles Batty.”
“Oh—” He was bewildered. “Then it was all right?”
“Perfectly, of course.”
“I didn’t know,” he muttered. “And you forgive me?”
She was generous. “I was just as bad as you. The Malletts are all flirts. Haven’t you heard Aunt Caroline say so? We can’t help doing silly things, but we never take them seriously. Why, you must have noticed that with Aunt Rose!”
“No,” he said with dignity, “your Aunt Rose is like nobody else in the world. I think I told you that once. She—” He hesitated and was silent.
“Well, I must be going back,” Henrietta said easily. “I shan’t bother about the primroses. I think it’s going to rain. And you won’t think about this any more, will you? You know, Aunt Caroline says she nearly eloped several times, and I know my father did it once, with my own mother, probably with other people beside. It’s in the blood. I must try to settle down. We did behave rather badly, I suppose, but so much has happened since. That was my first ball and I felt I wanted to do something daring.”
“You were not to blame,” he said; “but I’m nearly old enough to be your father. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t forget it.”
“Oh, dear! And I never took it seriously at all. There was a train back to Radstowe at ten o’clock. I looked it up. I was going to get that, but as it happened I went to a concert with Charles Batty. You seem to have no idea how to play a game. You have to pretend to yourself it’s a matter of life and death; but you haven’t to let it be. That would spoil it.”
“I see,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t look at it like that. I wish I had, and I’m glad you did. It makes it easier—and harder—for me.”
“We ought,” she said, “to have laid the rules down first. Yes, we ought to have done that.” She laughed again. “I shall do that another time. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. You’ve been awfully good to me, Henrietta. Thank you.”
“Not a bit,” she cried. “If I’d known you were bothering about it, I would have reassured you.” She could not withhold a parting shot. “I would have sent you a message by Aunt Rose.”
She waved a hand and ran back to the road. She did not trouble to ask herself whether or not he believed her. She was shaken by sobs without tears. She did not love him, she had never loved him, but she could not bear the knowledge that he did not love her. It was quite plain; she was not going to deceive herself any more; his manner had been unmistakable and it was Aunt Rose he loved. She had been beaten by Aunt Rose, and even Charles called her adorable. She did not want Francis Sales; he was rather stupid, and as a legitimate lover he would be dull, duller than Charles, who at least knew how to say things; but something coloured and exciting and dramatic had been ravished from her—by Aunt Rose. That was the sting, and she was humiliated, though she would not own it. She had been good enough for an episode, but her charm had not endured.
Her little, rather inhuman teeth ground against each other. But she had been clever, she had carried it off well; she had not given a sign, and she determined to be equally clever with Aunt Rose. Some day she would refer lightly to her folly and laugh at the susceptibility of Francis Sales. It would hurt Aunt Rose to have her faithful lover disparaged! But, ah! if only she and Aunt Rose were friends, what a conspiracy they could enjoy together! They had both suffered, they might both laugh. How they might play into each other’s hands with Francis Sales for the bewildered ball! It would be the finest sport in the world; but they were not friends, and it was impossible to imagine Aunt Rose at that game. No, she was alone in the world, and as she felt the first drop of rain on her face she became aware of the aching of her heart.
She stood for a moment on the bridge. A grey mist was being driven up the river, blotting out the gorge and the trees. A gull, shrieking dismally, cleaved the greyness with a white flash. It was cold and Henrietta shivered, and once again she wished she could sit by a fireside with some one who was kind and tender; but to-night there would only be Aunt Sophia and Aunt Rose sitting with her in that drawing-room, where everything was too elegant and too clear, where now no one ever laughed.
§ 11
They sat by the fire as she had foreseen, Sophia pretending to be busy with her embroidery, Rose, in a straight-backed chair, reading a book. Henrietta sat on a low stool with a book open on her knee, but she did not read it. The fire talked to itself, said silly things and chuckled, or murmured sentimentally. That chatter, vaguely insane, and the turning of Rose’s pages, the drawing of Sophia’s silks through the stuff and the click of her scissors, were the only sounds until, suddenly, Sophia gave a groan and fell back in her chair. Rose, very much startled, glanced at Henrietta and jumped up.
“It’s her heart,” Henrietta said with the superiority of her knowledge. “I’ll get her medicine.” She came back with it. “She was like this when Aunt Caroline died, but I promised not to tell. If she has this she will be better.”
It was Henrietta who poured the liquid into the glass and applied it to Sophia’s lips. She was, she felt, the practical person, and it was she, and not Aunt Rose, who had been trusted by Aunt Sophia. “She told me where she kept the stuff,” Henrietta continued calmly. “There, that’s better.”
Sophia recovered with apologies: a little faintness; it was nothing. In a few minutes she would go to bed. They helped her there.
“You ought to have told me, Henrietta,” Rose said on the landing.
“I couldn’t. She wished it to be our secret.” It was pleasant to feel that Aunt Rose was out of this affair.
“We must have the doctor and she ought not to be alone to-night.”
I’ll sleep on the sofa in her room.”
“No, Henrietta, you need more sleep than I do.”
“Oh, but I’m young enough to sleep anywhere—on the floor! But let Aunt Sophia choose.”
Henrietta went back to the drawing-room, and the housemaid was sent for the doctor. Shortly afterwards there came a ring at the bell; no doubt it was the doctor, and Henrietta wished she could go upstairs with him, for Aunt Rose, she told herself again, was not a practical person and Henrietta was experienced in illness. She had nursed her mother and she liked looking after people. She knew how to arrange pillows; she was not afraid of sickness. However, she would have to wait until Aunt Sophia sent for her; but it was not the doctor: it was Charles Batty who appeared in the doorway.
“Oh,” Henrietta said, “what have you come for?”
He put down the hat and stick he had forgotten to leave in the hall. “I don’t know,” he said. “I had a kind of feeling you might like to see me. It’s the first time I’ve had it,” he added solemnly.
He really had an extraordinary way of knowing things, but she said, “Well, Aunt Sophia’s ill, so I don’t think you can stay.”
He looked round for her. “She’s not here. I shan’t do any harm, shall I? We can whisper.”
“She wouldn’t hear us anyhow. It’s my room above this one.”
“Is it?” He gazed at the ceiling with interest. “Oh, up there!”
“I should have thought you knew by instinct,” she said bitingly.
“No.”
“Come and sit down, Charles, and don’t be disagreeable. I shall have to go to Aunt Sophia soon, but then you will be able to talk to Aunt Rose. That will do just as well.”
“Not quite,” he said. “I really came to tell you—”
“You said you came because you thought I wanted you.”
“So I did, but there were several reasons. You said you were going to be happy to-day, not murderous, do you remember? And I thought I’d like to see how you looked. You don’t look happy a bit. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve told you Aunt Sophia’s ill. And would you be happy if you had to sit in this prim room with two old women?”
“Two? But your Aunt Caroline is dead.”
“But my Aunt Rose is very much alive.”
He wagged his head. “I see.”
“But she isn’t lively. She sits like this—reading a book, and Aunt Sophia, poor Aunt Sophia, sews like this, and I sit on this horrid little stool, like this. That’s how we spend the evening.”
“How would you like to spend it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She dropped her black head to her knees. “It’s so lonely.”
“Well,” he began again, “I really came to tell you that there’s a house to let on The Green: that little one with the red roof like a cap and windows that squint; a little old house; but—” he paused—“it has every modern convenience. Henrietta, there’s a curl at the back of your neck.”
“I know. It’s always there.”
“I can’t go on about the house unless you sit up.”
“Why?”
“Because of that curl.”
“And I’m not interested in the house.” She did not move. “Whose is it?”
“It belongs to a client of ours, but that doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s to let. I’ve got an order to view. Look!—‘Please admit Mr. Charles Batty.’ I went this evening and we can both go to-morrow. It’s really a very cosy little house. There’s a drawing-room opening on the garden at the back, with plenty of room for a grand piano, and the dining-room—I liked the dining-room very much. There was a fire in it.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It looked so cosy, with a red carpet and everything.”
“Is the carpet to let, too?”
“I don’t know. I dare say we could buy it. And mind you, Henrietta, the kitchen is on the ground floor. That’s unusual, if you like, in an old house. I made sure of that before I went any further.”
“How far are you going?”
“We’ll go everywhere to-morrow, even into the coal cellar. To-day I just peeped.”
“I can imagine you. But what do you want a house for, Charles?”
“For you,” he said. “You say you don’t like spending the evenings here—well, let’s spend them in the little house. We can’t go on being engaged indefinitely.”
“Certainly not,” she said firmly, “and I should adore a little house of my own. I believe that’s just what I want.”
“Then that’s settled.”
“But not with you, Charles.”
He said nothing for a time. She was sitting up, her hands clasped on her lap, and as she looked at him she half regretted her last words. This was how they would sit in the little house, by the fire, surrounded by their own possessions, with everything clean and bright and, as he had said, very cosy. She had never had a home.
Suddenly she leaned towards him and put her head on his knee. His hand fell on her hair. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she murmured; “but I was just thinking. You’re tempting me again. First with the ring because it was so pretty, and now with a house.”
“How else am I to get you?” he cried out. “And you know you were feeling lonely. That’s why I came.”
“You thought it was your chance?”
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know the ordinary things, but I know the others.”
“I wonder how,” she said, and he answered with the one word, “Love,” in a voice so deep and solemn that she laughed.
“Do you know,” she said, “I have never had a home. I’ve lived in other people’s houses, with their ugly furniture, their horrid sticky curtains—”
“I shall take that house to-morrow.”
“But you can’t go on collecting things like this. Houses and rings—”
“The ring’s in my pocket now.”
“It must stay there, Charles. I ought not to keep my head on your knee; but it’s comfortable and I have no conscience. None.” She sat up, brushing his chin with her hair. “None!” she said emphatically. “And here’s Aunt Rose coming to fetch me for Aunt Sophia. Mind, I’ve promised nothing. Besides, you haven’t asked me to promise anything.”
“Oh!” He blinked. “Well, there’s no time now. Good evening, Miss Mallett.” He pulled himself out of his chair.
“Good evening, Charles. I’m glad you’re here to keep Henrietta company. The doctor has been, Henrietta—”
“Oh, has he? I didn’t hear him.”
“Sophia is settled for the night, and I’m going to her now.”
“But she’ll want me!” Henrietta cried.
“No, she asked me to stay with her. Good night. Good night, Charles.”
“But did you say I wanted to be with her?”
Rose, smiling but a little pitiful, said gently, “I gave her the choice and she chose me.”
She disappeared, and Henrietta turned to Charles. “You see, she gets everything. She gets everything I ever wanted and she doesn’t try—” Her hands dropped to her side. “She just gets it.”
“But what have you wanted?”
She turned away. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Is she going to marry Francis Sales?”
“What makes you ask that?” she cried.
“I don’t know. I just thought of it.”
“Oh, your thoughts! Why, you suggested the same thing, for me! As if I would look at him!”
Charles blinked, his sign of agitation, but Henrietta did not see. “He’s good to look at,” Charles muttered. “He knows how to wear his clothes.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Charles heaved a sigh. “One never knows what matters.”
“And the Malletts don’t marry,” Henrietta said. “Aunt Caroline and Aunt Sophia and Aunt Rose, and now me. There’s something in us that can’t be satisfied. It was the same with my father, only it took him the other way.”
“I didn’t know he was married more than once. Nobody tells me things.”
“Charles, dear, you’re very stupid. He was only married once in a church.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And if I did marry, I should be like him.” She turned to him and put her face close to his. “Unfaithful,” she pronounced clearly.
“Oh, well, Henrietta, you would still be you.”
She stepped backwards, shocked. “Charles, wouldn’t you mind?”
“Not so much,” he said stolidly, “as doing without you altogether.”
“And the other day you said you need never do that because”—she tapped his waistcoat—“because I’m here!”
He showed a face she had never seen before. “You seem to think I’m not made of flesh and blood!” he cried. “You’re wanton, Henrietta, simply wanton!” And he rushed out of the room.
She heard the front door bang; she saw his hat and stick, lying where he had put them; she smiled at them politely and then, sinking to the floor beside the fender, she let out a little moan of despair and delight. The fire chuckled and chattered and she leaned forward, her face near the bars.
“Stop talking for a minute! I want to tell you something. There’s nobody else to tell. Listen! I’m in love with him now.” She nodded her head. “Yes, with him. I know it’s ridiculous; but it’s true. Did you hear? You can laugh if you like. I don’t care. I’m in love with him. Oh, dear!”
She circled her neck with her hands as though she must clasp something, and it would have been too silly to fondle his ugly hat. And he would remember he had forgotten it; he would come back. She dared not see him. “I love him,” she cried out, “too much to want to see him!” She paused, astonished. “I suppose that’s how he feels about me. How wonderful!” She looked round at the furniture, so still and unmoved by the happy bewilderment in which she found herself. The piano was mute; the lamps burned steadily; the chair in which Charles had sat was unconscious of its privilege; even the fire’s flames had subsided; and she was intensely, madly, joyously alive. “It’s too much,” she said, “too much!” And for the first time she was ashamed of her episode with Francis Sales. “Playing at love,” she whispered.
But Charles would be coming back and, tiptoeing as though he might hear her from the street, she picked up his hat and stick and laid them neatly on the step outside the front door.
She slept with the profundity of her happiness and descended to breakfast in a dream. Only the sight of Rose’s tired face reminded her that Aunt Sophia was ill. She had had a bad night, but she was better.
“She’s not going to die, too, is she?” Henrietta asked, and she had a sad vision of Aunt Rose living all alone in Nelson Lodge.
“She may live for a long time, but the doctor says she may die at any moment.”
“I don’t suppose she wants to live.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because of Aunt Caroline—and—other people. But if she dies, whatever will you do?”
The question amused Rose. “Go and see the world at last,” she said. “Perhaps you will come, too.”
Henrietta laughed and flushed and became serious. “She mustn’t die.”
For, after all, Aunt Sophia was not a true Mallett, according to Aunt Caroline’s test; she believed in marriage, she would like to see Henrietta in the little house; one of them would be able to call on the other every day. It was wonderful of Charles to have known she would like that house: she knew it well, with its red cap and its squinting eyes; but, then, he was altogether wonderful.
She supposed he would call for her that afternoon and they would present the order to view together, but he did not come. With her hat and gloves lying ready on the bed, she waited for his knock in vain. He must have been kept by business; he would come later to explain. And then, when still he did not come, she decided that he must be ill. If so, her place was by his side, and she saw herself moving like an angel about his bed; and yet the thought of Charles in bed was comic.
At dinner she ate nothing and when Rose remarked on this, Henrietta murmured that she had a headache; she thought she would go for a walk.
“Then, if you are really going out, will you take a note to Mrs. Batty? She sent some fruit and flowers to Sophia. I suppose Charles told her she was ill.”
Henrietta looked sharply at her aunt: she was suspicious of what seemed like tact, but Rose wore an ordinary expression.
“Is the note ready?” Henrietta asked.
“Yes, I meant to post it, but I’d rather she had it to-night, and there is the basket to return.”
“Very well, I’ll take them both, and if I’m a little late, you’ll know I have just gone for a walk or something.”
“I shan’t worry about you,” Rose said.
Henrietta walked up the yellow drive, trembling a little. She had decided to ask for Mrs. Batty who was always pleased to see her, but when the door was opened her ears were assailed by a blast of triumphant sound. It was Charles, playing the piano; he was not ill, he was not busy, he was merely playing the piano as though there were no Henrietta in the world, and her trembling changed to the stiffness of great anger.
She handed in the basket and the note without a word or a smile for the friendly parlourmaid. She walked home in the awful realization that she had worn Charles out. He had called her wanton; he must have meant it. It was that word which had really made her love him, yet it was also the sign of his exhaustion. Life was tragic: no, it was comic, it was playful. She had had happiness in her hands, and it had slipped through them. She felt sick with disappointment under her rage; but she was not without hope. It stirred in her gently. Charles would come back. But would he? And she suddenly felt a terrible distrust of that love of which he had boasted. It was too complete; he could do without her. He would go on loving, but, she repeated it, she had worn him out, and she could not love like that. She wanted tangible things. But he had said that he, too, was flesh and blood, and that comforted her. He would come back, but she could do nothing to invite him.
This, she said firmly, was the real thing. It had been different with Francis Sales: with him there had been no necessity for pride, but her love for Charles must be wrapped round with reserve and kept holy; and at once, with her unfailing dramatic sense, she saw herself moving quietly through life, tending the sacred flame. And then, irritably, she told herself she could not spend her days doing that: she did not know what to do! She hated him; she would go away; yes, she would go away with Aunt Rose.
In the meantime she wept with a passion of disappointment, humiliation and pain, but on each successive morning, for some weeks, she woke to hope, for here was a new day with many possibilities in its hours; and each evening she dropped on to her bed, disheartened. Nothing happened. Aunt Sophia was better, Rose rode out every day, the little house on The Green stood empty, squinting disconsolately, resignedly surprised at its own loneliness. It was strange that nobody wanted a house like that; it was neglected and so was she: nobody noticed the one or the other.
Every morning Henrietta took Aunt Sophia for a stately walk; every afternoon she went to a tea- or tennis-party, for the summer festivities were beginning once more; and often, as she returned, she would meet Aunt Rose coming back from her ride, always cool in her linen coat, however hot the day. Where did she go? How often did she meet Francis Sales? Why should she be enjoying adventures while Henrietta, at the only age worth having, was desperately fulfilling the tedious round of her engagements? It was absurd, and Aunt Rose would ask serenely, “Did you have a good game, Henrietta?” as though there was nothing wrong.
Henrietta did not care for games. It was the big sport of life itself she craved for, and she could not get it. All these young men, handsome and healthy in their flannels and ready to be pleasant, she found dull, while the figure of the loose-jointed Charles, his vague gestures, his unseeing eyes screening the activity of his brain, became heroic in their difference. She never saw him; she did not visit Mrs. Batty; she was afraid of falling tearfully on that homely, sympathetic breast, but Mrs. Batty, as usual, issued invitations for a garden-party.
“We shall have to go,” Sophia sighed. “Such an old and so kind a friend! But without Caroline—for the first tune!”
“There is no need for you to go,” Rose said at once. “Mrs. Batty will understand, and Henrietta and I will represent the family.”
“No, I must not give way. Caroline never gave way.”
There was no excitement in dressing for this party. Without Caroline things lost their zest, and they set out demurely, walking very slowly for Sophia’s sake.
It was a hot day and Mrs. Batty, standing at the garden door to greet her guests, was obliged to wipe her face surreptitiously now and then, while the statues in the hall, with their burdens of ferns and lamps, showed their cool limbs beneath their scanty but still decent drapery.
Mrs. Batty took Sophia to a seat under a tree and Henrietta stood for a moment in the blazing sunlight alone. Where was Aunt Rose? Henrietta looked round and had a glimpse of that slim black form moving among the rose-trees with Francis Sales. He had simply carried her off! It was disgraceful, and things seemed to repeat themselves for ever. Aunt Rose, with her look of having lost everything, still succeeded in possessing, while Henrietta was alone. She had no place in the world. John’s affianced bride was busy among the guests, like a daughter of the house, a slobbering bulldog at her heels; and Henrietta, isolated on the lawn, was overcome by her own forlornness. It had been very different at the ball. And how queer life was! It was just a succession of days, that was all: little things happened and the days went on; big things happened and seemed to change the world, but nothing was really changed, and a whole life could be spent with a moment’s happiness or despair for its only marks.
Henrietta, rather impressed by the depths of her own thoughts, moved through the garden. Where was Charles? She wanted to see him and get their meeting over, but there was not a sign of him and, avoiding the croquet players and that shady corner where elderly ladies were clustered near the band, the same band which had played at the ball, Henrietta found herself in the kitchen garden. She examined the gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds with apparent interest, unwilling to join the guests and still more unwilling to be found alone in this deserted state. It was very hot. The open door of a little shed showed her a dim and cool interior; she peeped in and stepped back with an exclamation. Something had moved in there. It might be a rat or one of John’s ferocious terriers, but a voice said quietly, “It’s only me.”
She stepped forward. “What are you doing in there?”
“Getting cool,” Charles said. “I thought nobody would find me. Won’t you come in? It’s rather dirty in here, but it’s cool, and you can’t hear the band. I’ve been sitting on the handle of the wheelbarrow, so that’s clean, anyhow. I’ll wipe it with my handkerchief to make sure.”
“But where are you going to sit?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“There’s room on the other handle.”
Henrietta sat with her knees between the shafts, and he sat on the other handle with his back to her.
“We can’t stay here long,” she said.
“No,” Charles agreed.
The place smelt musty, but of heaven. It was draped with cobwebs like celestial clouds; it was dark, but gradually the forms of rakes, hoes, spades and a watering-pot cleared themselves from the gloom and Charles’s head bloomed above his coat like a great pale flower.
She put out her hand and drew it back again. She found nothing to say. Outside the sun poured down its rays like fire. Henrietta’s head drooped under her big hat. She was content to stay here for ever if Charles would stay, too. Her body felt as though it were imponderable, she had no feet, she could not feel the hard handle of the wheelbarrow; she seemed to be floating blissfully, aware of nothing but that floating, yet a threat of laughter began to tickle her. It was absurd to sit like this, like strangers in an omnibus. The laughter rose to her throat and escaped: she floated no longer, but she was no less happy.
“What’s the matter?” asked the voice of Charles.
“So funny, sitting like this.”
“What else can we do?”
“You could turn round.”
“There’s not room for all our knees.”
She stood up with a little rustle and walked to the door. “No, it’s too hot out there,” she said, and returned to face him. “Charles,” she said in rather a high voice, “did you find your hat and stick that night?”
“What? Oh, yes,” and then irrelevantly he added, “I’ve just been made a partner.”
“Really?” She was always interested in practical things. “In Mr. Batty’s firm? How splendid! I didn’t know you were any good at business.”
“I’ve been improving, and you don’t know anything about me.”
“I do, Charles,” she said earnestly.
“No, nothing. You haven’t time to think of anybody but yourself. And now I must go and look after all these people. You’d better come and have an ice.”
There was ice at her heart and she realized now that her past unhappiness had been half false; she had been waiting for him all the time and trusting to his next sight of her to put things right, but she had failed with him, too.
In that dim tool-house she had stood before him in her pretty dress, smiling down at him, surely irresistible, and he had resisted. Well, she could resist, too, and she walked calmly by his side, holding her head very high, and when he parted from her with a grave bow, she felt a great, an awed respect for him.
She went to find her Aunt Sophia, who was still sitting under the tree, surrounded by a chattering group. She looked tired, and, signalling for Henrietta to approach, she said, “I’m afraid this is too much for me, dear child. Can you find Rose and ask her to take me home? But I don’t want to spoil your pleasure, Henrietta. There is no need for you to come.”
Henrietta’s lip twisted with dramatic bitterness. There was no pleasure left for her. “I would rather go back with you, Aunt Sophia. Let us go now.”
“No, no. Find Rose.”
There was another buffet in the face. It was Rose who was wanted and Henrietta, walking swiftly, crossed the lawn again, casting quick glances right and left. Rose was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, for their ways had an odd habit of following the same path, she was in the tool-house with Francis Sales, but as she turned to go there, the voice of Mrs. Batty, husky with exhaustion and heat, said in her ear, “Is it your Aunt Rose you are looking for, love? I think I saw her go into the house, and I wish I could go myself. It’s so hot that I really feel I may have a fit.”
Henrietta went into the cool, shaded drawing-room on light feet, and there, against the window, she saw her Aunt Rose in an attitude startlingly unfamiliar. She was standing with her hands clasped before her, and she gazed down at them lost in thought—or prayer. Her body, so upright and strong, seemed limp and broken, and her face, which was calm, yet had the look of having composed itself after pain.
There was no one else in the room, but Henrietta had the strong impression that someone had lately passed through the door. She was afraid to disturb that moment in which an escaped soul seemed to be fluttering back into its place, but Rose looked up and saw her and Henrietta, advancing softly as though towards a person who was dead, stopped within a foot of her. Then, without thought and obeying an uncontrollable impulse, she stepped forward and laid her cheek against her aunt’s. Rose’s hands dropped apart and, one arm encircling Henrietta’s waist, she held her close, but only for a minute. It was Henrietta who broke away, saying, “Aunt Sophia sent me to look for you. She doesn’t feel well.”
§ 12
Mrs. Batty was cured of giving parties. It was after her ball that Miss Caroline died, and it was after her garden-party that Miss Sophia finally collapsed. The heat, the emotion of her memories and the effort of disguising it had been too much for her. She died the following day and Mrs. Batty felt that the largest and most expensive wreath procurable could not approach the expression of her grief. It was no good talking to Mr. Batty about it; he would only say he had been against the ball and garden-party from the first, but Mrs. Batty found Charles unexpectedly soothing. He was certainly much improved of late, and when she heard that he was to go to Nelson Lodge on business connected with the estate, she burdened him with a number of incoherent messages for Rose.
Perhaps he delivered them; he certainly stayed in the drawing-room for some time, and Henrietta, sitting sorrowfully in her bedroom, could hear his voice “rolling on monotonously. Then there was a laugh and Henrietta was indignant. Nobody ought to laugh with Aunt Sophia lying dead, and she did not know how to stay in her room while those two, Aunt Rose and her Charles, talked and laughed together. She thought of pretending not to know he was there and of entering the drawing-room in a careless manner, but she could not allow Aunt Rose to witness Charles’s indifference. All she could do was to steal on to the landing and lean over the banisters to watch him depart. She had the painful consolation of seeing the top of his head and of hearing him say, “The day after to-morrow?”
Rose answered, “Yes, it’s most important.”
Henrietta waited until the front door had closed behind him and then, seeing Rose at the foot of the stairs, she said, “What’s important, Aunt Rose?”
“Oh, are you there, Henrietta? What a pity you didn’t come down. That was Charles Batty.”
“I know. What’s important?”
“There is a lot of complicated business to get through.”
“You might let me help.”
“I wish you would. When Charles comes again—his father isn’t very well—you had better be present.”
“No, not with Charles,” Henrietta said firmly. “Does he understand wills and things?”
“Perfectly, I think. He’s very clever and quite interesting.”
“Oh!” Henrietta said.
“I’m glad he’s coming again. And now, Henrietta,” she sighed, “we must get ready for the cousins.”
The female relatives returned in dingy cabs. They had not yet laid aside their black and beads for Caroline, and, as though they thought Sophia had been unfairly cheated of new mourning, they had adorned themselves with a fresh black ribbon here and there, or a larger brooch of jet, and these additions gave to the older garments a rusty look, a sort of blush.
Across these half-animated heaps of woe and dye, the glances of Rose and Henrietta met in an understanding pleasing to both. This mourning had a professional, almost a rapacious quality, and if these women had no hope of material pickings, they were getting all possible nourishment from emotional ones. Their eyes, very sharp, but veiled by seemly gloom, criticized the slim, upright figures of these young women who could wear black gracefully, sorrow with dignity, and who had, as they insisted, so much the look of sisters.
The air seemed freer for their departure, but the house was very empty, and though Sophia had never made much noise the place was heavy with a final silence.
“I don’t know why we’re here!” Henrietta cried passionately across the dinner-table when Susan had left the ladies to their dessert.
“Why were we ever here?” Rose asked. “If one could answer that question—”
They faced each other in their old places. The curved ends of the shining table were vacant, the Chippendale armchairs were pushed back against the wall, yet the ghosts of Caroline and Sophia, gaily dressed, with dangling earrings, the sparkle of jewels, the movements of their beringed fingers, seemed to be in the room.
“But we shall never forget them,” Henrietta said. “They were persons. Aunt Rose, do you think you and I will go on as they did, until just one of us is left?”
“We could never be like them.”
“No, they were happy.”
“You will be happy again, Henrietta. We shall get used to this silence.”
“But I don’t think either of us is meant to be happy. No, we’re not like them. We’re tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of one another, mightn’t we?”
“I am fond of you.”
“I don’t see how you can be”—Henrietta looked down at the fruit on her plate—“considering what has happened,” she almost whispered.
Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen.
“But how fond are you?” Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose, peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, “I don’t know how you measure.”
“By what you would do for a person.”
“Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.”
Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though startled by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were stirred.
“Yes,” Henrietta said, “I hated you for a long time, but now I don’t. You’ve been unhappy, too. And you were right about—that man. I didn’t love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn’t come that day—”
Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn’t love him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.”
Henrietta’s face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said clearly, “Then you’re still jealous.”
Rose smiled. It seemed impossible to move her. “No, Henrietta. I left jealousy behind years ago. We won’t discuss this any further. It doesn’t bear discussion. It’s beyond it.”
“I know it’s very unpleasant,” Henrietta said politely, “but if we are to go on living together, we ought to clear things up.”
“We are not going on living together,” Rose said. She left the table and stood before the fire, one hand on the mantelshelf and one foot on the fender. The long, soft lines of her dark dress were merged into the shadows, and the white arm, the white face and neck seemed to be disembodied. Henrietta, struck dumb by that announcement, and feeling the situation wrested from the control of her young hands, stared at the slight figure which had typified beauty for her since she first saw it.
“Then you don’t like me,” she faltered.
Rose did not move, but she began to speak. “Henrietta, I have loved you very dearly, almost as if you were my daughter, but you didn’t seem to want my love. I couldn’t force it on you, but it has been here: it is still here. I think you have the power of making people love you, yet you do nothing for it except, perhaps, exist. One ought not to ask any more; I don’t ask it, but you ought to learn to give. You’ll find it’s the only thing worth doing. Taking—taking—one becomes atrophied. No, it isn’t that I don’t care for you, it isn’t that. I am going to be married.”
Very carefully, Henrietta put her plate aside, and, supporting her face in her hands, she pressed her elbows into the table; she pressed hard until they hurt. So Aunt Rose was going to be married while Henrietta was deserved. “Not to Francis Sales?” she whispered.
“Yes, to Francis Sales.”
She had a wild moment of anger, succeeded by horror for Aunt Rose. Was she stupid? Was she insensible? And Henrietta said, “But you can’t, Aunt Rose, you can’t.” Her distress and a kind of envy gave her courage. “He isn’t good enough. He played with you and then with me and you said there was some one else.” The figure by the mantelpiece was so still that Henrietta became convinced of the potency of her own words, and she went on: “You know everything about him and you can’t marry him. How can you marry him?”
A sound, like the faint and distant wailing of the wind, came out of the shadows into which Rose had retreated: “Ah, how?”
“And you’re going to leave me—for him!”
“Yes—for him.”
“Aunt Rose, you would be happier with me.”
Again there came that faint sound. “Perhaps.”
“I’d try to be kinder to you. I don’t understand you.”
“No, you don’t understand me. Do you understand yourself?” She left her place and put her hands on Henrietta’s shoulders. “Say no more,” she said with unmistakable authority. “Say no more, neither to me nor to anybody else. This is beyond you. And now come into the drawing-room. Don’t cry, Henrietta. I’m not going to be married for some time.”
“I wish I’d known you loved me,” Henrietta sobbed.
“I tried to show you.”
“If I’d known, everything might have been different.”
Rose laughed. “But we don’t want it to be different.”
“You won’t be happy,” Henrietta wailed.
“You, at least,” Rose said sternly, “have done nothing to make me so.”
Henrietta stilled her sobbing. It was quite true. She had taken everything—Aunt Rose’s money, Aunt Rose’s love, her wonderful forbearance and the love of Charles.
“I don’t know what to do,” she cried.
“Come into the drawing-room and we’ll talk about it.”
But they did not talk. Rose played the piano in the candlelight for a little while before she slipped out of the room. Henrietta sat on the little stool without even the fire to keep her company. She was too dazed to think. She did not understand why Aunt Rose should choose to marry Francis Sales and she gave it up, but loneliness stretched before her like a long, hard road.
If only Charles would come! He always came when he was wanted. A memory reached her weary mind. This was “the day after to-morrow,” and Aunt Rose expected him. She leapt up and examined herself in the mirror. She was one of those lucky people who can cry and leave no trace; colour had sprung into her cheeks, but it faded quickly. She had waited for him before and he had not come, and she was tired of waiting. She sank into Aunt Caroline’s chair and shut her eyes; she almost slept. She was on the verge of dreams when the bell jangled harshly. She did not move. She sat in an agony of fear that this would not be Charles; but the door opened and he entered. Susan pronounced his name, and he stood on the threshold, thinking the room was empty.
A very small voice pierced the stillness. “Charles, I’m here.”
“I won’t come a step farther,” Charles said severely, “until you tell me if you love me.”
“I thought you’d come to see Aunt Rose.”
“Henrietta—”
“Yes, I love you, I love you,” she said hurriedly. “I’m nodding my head hard. No, stay where you are, stay where you are. I’ve been loving you for weeks and you’ve treated me shamefully. No, no, I’ve got to be different, I’ve got to give. You didn’t treat me shamefully.”
“No,” he said stolidly, “I didn’t. Here’s the ring, and I took that house. I’ve been renting it ever since I knew we were going to live in it. Here’s the ring.” He dropped it into her lap.
She looked down at the stones, hard and bright like herself. “Aunt Rose will be very much surprised,” she said, and she was too happy to wonder why he laughed.
Standing on the stair, Rose heard that laughter and went on very slowly to her room. She had, at least, done something for Henrietta. She had given Charles his chance, and now she was to go on doing things for Francis Sales. She owed him something: she owed him the romance of her youth, she owed him the care which was all she had left to give him. Things had come to her too late, her eyes were too wide open, yet perhaps it was better so. She had no illusions and she wanted to justify her early faith and Christabel’s sufferings and her own. There was nothing else to do. Besides, he needed her, and with him she would not be more unhappy; he would be happier, he said. She had to protect him against himself, yet even there she was frustrated, for he had, in a measure, found himself, and now that she was ready and able to serve him there would be less for her to do. But she had no choice: there was the old debt, there were the old chains, and as she faced the future she was stirred by hope. She could tell herself that something of her dead love had waked to life, yet when she tried to get back the old rapture, she knew it had gone for ever.
She entered her room and did not turn on the light. There seemed to be a strange weight in her body, pressing her down, but, as she looked through her open window at the summer sky deepening to night and letting out the stars, which seemed to be much amused, there was a lightness in her mind and, smiling back at them, she was able to share their appreciation of the joke.