§ 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.