§ 5
That ball was to be known in Nelson Lodge as the one that killed Miss Caroline, but Miss Caroline had her full share of pleasure out of it. It was the custom in Radstowe to make much of Caroline and Sophia: they were respected and playfully loved and it was not only the middle-aged gentlemen who asked them to dance, and John and Charles Batty were not the only young ones who had the honour of leading them into the middle of the room, taking a few turns in a waltz and returning, in good order, to the throne-like arm-chairs. Francis Sales had their names on his programme, but with him they used the privilege of old friends and preferred to talk.
“You can keep your dancing for Rose and Henrietta,” Caroline said.
“He comes too late for me,” Rose said pleasantly. He gave her something remarkably like one of his old looks and she answered it with a grave one. There was gnawing trouble at her heart. She had watched his meeting with Henrietta. It had been wordless; everything was understood. She had also seen the unhappiness of Charles Batty, and, on an inspiration, she said to him, “Charles, you must take pity on an old maid. I have all these dances to give away.”
For him this dance was to be remembered as the beginning of his friendship with Rose Mallett; but at the moment he was merely annoyed at being prevented from watching Henrietta’s dark head appearing and disappearing among the other dancers like that of a bather in a rough sea. He said, “Oh, thank you very much. Are you sure there’s nobody else? But I suppose there can’t be”; and holding her at arm’s length, he ambled round her, treading occasionally on her toes. He apologized: he was no good at dancing: he hoped he had not hurt her slippers, or her feet.
She paused and looked down at them. “You mustn’t do that to Henrietta. Her slippers are yellow and you would spoil them.”
“She isn’t giving me a single dance!” he burst out. “I asked her to, but I never thought I ought to get a promise. Nobody told me. Nobody tells me anything.”
An icily angry gentleman remonstrated with him for standing in the fairway and Rose suggested that they should sit down.
“You see, I’m no good. I can’t dance. I can’t please her.”
“Charles, you’re still in the way. Let us go somewhere quiet and then you can tell me all about it.”
He took her to a small room leading from the big one. “I’ll shut the door,” he said, “and then we shan’t hear that hideous din.”
“It is a very good band.”
“It’s profane,” Charles said wearily. “Music—they call it music!” He was off at a great pace and she did not try to hold him in. She lay back in the big chair and seemed to study the toes on which Charles Batty had trampled. His voice rolled on like the sound of water, companionable and unanswerable. Suddenly his tone changed. “Henrietta is very unkind to me.”
“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be?”
“I do everything I can think of. I’ve told her all about myself.”
“She would rather hear about herself.”
“I’ve done that, too. Perhaps I haven’t done it enough. I’ve given her chocolates and flowers. What else ought I to do?”
Her voice, very calm and clear after his spluttering, said, “Not too much.”
“Oh!” This was a new idea. “Oh! I never thought of that. Why—”
She interrupted his usual cry. “Women are naturally cruel.”
“Are they? I didn’t know that either.” He swallowed the information visibly. She could almost see the process of digestion. “Oh!” he said again.
“They don’t mean to be. They are simply untouched by a love they don’t return.” She added thoughtfully: “And inclined to despise the lover.”
“That’s it,” he mourned. “She despises me.” And in a louder voice he demanded, not of Rose Mallett, but of the mysterious world in which he gropingly existed, “Why should she?”
“She shouldn’t, but perhaps you yourself are making a mistake.”
She heard indistinctly the word, “Impossible.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I’m quite certain about that—about nothing else.” His big hands moved. “I cling to that.”
“Then you must be ready to serve her. Charles, if I ever needed you—”
“I’d do anything for you because you’re her aunt. And besides,” he said simply, “you’re rather like her in the face.”
“Thank you, but it’s her you may have to serve—and not me. I want her to be happy. I don’t know where her happiness is, but I know where it is not. Some day I may tell you.” She looked at him. He might be useful as an ally; she was sure he could be trusted. “Promise you will do anything I ask for her sake.”
He turned the head which had been sunk on his crumpled shirt. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, concerned, and more alert than she had ever seen him.
She said, “Hush!” for the door behind was opening and it let in a murmur of voices and a rush of cold, fresh air. Rose shivered and, looking round, she saw Henrietta and Francis Sales. Her cloak was half on and half off her shoulders, her colour was very high and her eyes were not so dazzled by the light that she did not immediately recognize her aunt. It was Francis Sales who hesitated and Rose said quickly, “Oh, please shut the door.”
He obeyed and stood by Henrietta’s side, a pleasing figure, looking taller and more finely made in his black clothes.
“Have you been on the terrace?”
“Yes, it’s a glorious night.”
“You’ll get cold,” Charles said severely. She had been out there with the man who murdered music and who, therefore, was a scoundrel, and Charles’s objection was based on that fact and not on Francis Sales’s married state. He had not the pleasure of feeling a pious indignation that a man with an invalid wife walked on the terrace with Henrietta. He would have said, “Why not?” and he would have found an excuse for any man in the beauty, the wonder, the enchantment of that girl, though he could not forgive Henrietta for her friendship with the slaughterer of music and of birds.
He glared and repeated, “You’ll be ill.”
Henrietta pretended not to hear him, and Rose said thoughtfully and slowly, “Oh, no, Charles, people don’t get cold when they are happy.”
“I suppose not.” He felt in a vague way that he and Rose, sitting there, for he had forgotten to stand up, were united against the other two who stood, very clear, against the gold-embossed wall of the room, and that those two were conscious of the antagonism. They also were united and he felt an increase of his dull pain at the sight of their comeliness, the suspicion of their likeness to each other. “I suppose not,” Charles said, and after that no one spoke, as though it were impossible to find a light word, and unnecessary.
Each one was aware of conflict, of something fierce and silent going on, but it was Rose who understood the situation best and Charles who understood it least. His feelings were torturing but simple. He wanted Henrietta and he could not get her: he did not please her, and that Sales, that Philistine, that handsome, well-made, sulky-looking beggar knew how to do it.
But Rose was conscious of the working of four minds: there was her own, sore with the past and troubled by a present in which her lover concealed his discomfiture under the easy sullenness of his pose. He, too, had the past shared with her to haunt him, but he had also a present bright with Henrietta’s allurements yet darkly streaked with prohibitions, struggles and surrenders, and Rose saw that the worst tragedy was his and hers. It must not be Henrietta’s. In their youth she and Francis had misunderstood, and in their maturity they had failed, each other; it was the fault of neither and Henrietta must not be the victim of their folly. Looking at the big fan of black feathers spread on her knee, Rose smiled a little, with a maternal tenderness. Henrietta was her father’s daughter, wilful and lovable, but she was also the daughter of that mother who had been good and loving. Henrietta had her father’s passion for excitement but, being a woman, she had the greater need of being loved, and Rose raised her eyes and looked at Charles with an ironical appreciation of his worthiness, of his comicality. She saw him with Henrietta’s eyes, and her white shoulders lifted and dropped in resignation. Then she looked at Henrietta and smiled frankly. “Another dance has begun,” she said. “Somebody must be looking for you.”
“No,” Henrietta said, “it’s with Mr. Sales,” and turning to him with the effect of ignoring Rose, she said in a clear voice which became slightly harsh as she saw him gazing at her aunt oddly, almost as though he were astonished by a new sight, “Shall we go back to the terrace or shall we dance?”
“You’ll get cold,” Charles said again angrily.
“Let us dance,” Sales said.
The door to the ball-room closed behind them and Charles let out a groan. “You see!” he said.
Rose hoped he did not see too much and she was reassured when he added, “She takes no notice of me.”
“Poor Charles, but you know you treat her a little like a child. You shouldn’t talk of catching cold. You’re too material.”
She was surprised to hear him say with a sort of humble pride, “Only before other people. She’s heard me different.” Then, dropping into the despair of his own thoughts, and with the rage of one feeling himself sinking hopelessly, he cried out, “It’s like pouring water through a sieve.”
The voice of Rose, very calm and wise, said gently, “Continue to pour.”
“It’s all very fine,” he muttered.
“Continue to pour. It may be all you can do, but it is worth while.”
“I told her I would do that, one night, on the hill. She said she didn’t want it.”
“She doesn’t know,” Rose said in the same voice, comforting in its quietness. She stood up. “We had better go back now, and remember, you promise to do for her anything I ask of you.”
“Of course,” he said, “but I shall do it wrong.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “It must be done rightly. It must. It will be. Now take me back.”
He resigned her unwillingly, for he felt that she was his strength, to the partner who claimed her, but as she prepared to dance, Charles returned hurriedly and, ignoring the affronted gentleman who had already clasped her, he said anxiously, “This service—what is it? Is there something wrong?”
She looked deeply into his eyes. “There must not be.”
And now, for him in the sea of dancers, there were two dark heads bobbing among the waves.
The hours sped by; the lavish supper was consumed; dresses and flowers lost their freshness; the musicians lost their energetic ardour; the man at the piano was seen to yawn cavernously above the keys. The guests began to depart, leaving an exhausted but happy Mrs. Batty. She had been complimented by Miss Mallett on the perfection of her arrangements, on the brilliance of the assembly, on the music and even on the refreshments, and Mrs. Batty had blessed her own perseverance against Mr. Batty’s obstinacy in the matter of the supper. He had wanted light refreshments and she had insisted on a knife-and-fork affair, and Miss Caroline had actually remarked on the wisdom of a solid meal. She had no patience with snacks. Mrs. Batty intended to lull Mr. Batty to slumber with that quotation.
In the cab, as the Malletts jolted home in the care of the same surly driver, Caroline complaisantly spoke of her congratulations. She would not have said so much to anybody else, but she knew Mrs. Batty would be pleased.
“So she was, dear,” Sophia said, but her more delicate social sense was troubled. “Though I do think one ought to treat everybody as one would treat the greatest lady in the land. I think we ought to have taken for granted that everything would be correct.”
“Rubbish! You must treat people as they want to be treated. She was panting for praise, and she got it, and anyhow it’s too late to argue.”
They had stayed to the end so that Henrietta’s pleasure should not be curtailed, and now she was leaning back, very white and still.
“I believe the child’s asleep,” Sophia whispered.
“No, I’m not. I’m wide awake.”
“Did you enjoy it, dear?”
“Very much,” said Henrietta.
“I kept my eye on you, child,” Caroline said.
Henrietta made an effort. “I kept my eye on you, Aunt Caroline. I saw you flirting with Mr. Batty.”
“Impudence! Sophia, do you hear her? I only danced with him twice, though I admit he hovered round my chair. They always did. I can’t help it. We’re all like that. You should have seen your father at a ball! There was no one like him. Such an air! Ah, here we are. I suppose this disagreeable cabman must be tipped.”
“I’ll see to that,” Rose said. It was the first time she had spoken. “Be quick, Caroline. Don’t stand in the cold.”
“The dancing has done me good,” Caroline said, and she lingered on the pavement to look at the stars, holding her skirts high in the happy knowledge of her unrivalled legs and feet. “No, Sophia, I am not cold, or tired; but yes, I’ll take a little soup.”
They sat round the roaring fire prepared for them and drank the soup out of fine old cups. Caroline chattered; she was gay; she believed she had been a great success; young men had paid court to her; she had rapped at least one of them with her fan; a grey-haired man had talked to her of her lively past. But Sophia had much ado to prevent her heavy head from nodding. Henrietta was silent, very busy with her thoughts and careful to avoid the eyes of Rose.
“I think,” Caroline said, “we ought to give a little dance. We could have this carpet up. Just a little dance—”
“But Henrietta and I,” Rose said distinctly, “are going away.”
“Oh, nonsense! You must put it off. We ought to give a dance for the child. Now, how many couples? Ten, at least. Sophia, you’re asleep.”
“No, dear. A party. I heard. But if you’re ready now, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Go along. I’ll follow.”
“Oh, no, Caroline, we always go together.”
“Well, well, I’ll come, but I could stay here and talk for hours. I could always sit you out and dance you out, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, dear. You’re wonderful. Such spirit!”
They kissed Rose; they both kissed Henrietta on each cheek.
“A little dance,” Caroline repeated, and patted Henrietta’s arm. “Good child,” she murmured.
Henrietta went upstairs behind them, slowly, not to overtake Sophia. She did not want to be left down there with Aunt Rose. She wanted solitude, and she knew now what people meant when they talked of being in a dream. Under her hand the slim mahogany rail felt like the cold, firm hand of Francis Sales when, after their last dance together, he had led her on to the terrace again. They were alone there, for the wind was very cold, but for Henrietta it was part of the exquisite mantle in which she was wrapped. She was wrapped in the glamour of the night and the stars and the excitement of the dance, yet suddenly, looking down at the dark river, she was chilled. She said, and her voice seemed to be carried off by the wind, “Aunt Rose is going to take me away.”
He bent down to her. “What did you say?”
She put her lips close to his ear. “Aunt Rose is going to take me away.”
He dropped her hand. “She can’t do that.”
“But she will. I shall have to go,” and he said gloomily, “I knew you would leave me, too.” She felt helpless and lonely: her happiness had gone; the wind had risen. She said loudly, “It’s not my fault. What can I do? I shall come back.”
He stood quite still and did not look at her. “You don’t think of me.”
“I think of nothing else. How can I tell her I can’t leave you? She has been good to me.”
“She was once good to me, too. That won’t last long.”
“Ah, that’s not true!” she cried.
“Go, then, if she’s more to you than I am. I’m used to that.”
She moved away from him. Why did he not help her? He was a man; he loved her, but he was cruel. Ah, the thought warmed her, it was his love that made him cruel: he needed her; he was lonely. Under her cloak, she clasped her gloved hands in a helplessness which must be conquered. What shall I do? she asked the stars. Across the river the cliff was sombre; it seemed to listen and to disapprove. The stars were kinder: they twinkled, they laughed, they understood, and the lights on the bridge glowed steadily with reassurance. She turned back to Francis Sales. “You must trust me,” she said firmly. He put his hands heavily on her shoulders. “I won’t let you go.”
A murmur, inarticulate and delighted, escaped her lips. This was what she wanted. Very small and willing to be commanded, she leaned against him. “What will you do with me?” she whispered, secure in his strength. She laughed. “You will have to take me away yourself!”
“You wouldn’t come,” he said with unexpected seriousness.
So close to him that the wind could not steal the words, she answered, “I would do anything for one I loved.”
The memory of her own voice, its tenderness and seduction, startled her in the solitude of her room. She had not known she could speak like that. She dropped her face into her hands, and in the rapture of her own daring and in the recollection of the excitement which had frozen them into a stillness through which the beating of their hearts sounded like a faint tap of drums, there came the doubt of her sincerity.
Had she really meant what she said? Yet she could have said nothing else. The words had left her lips involuntarily, her voice, as though of itself, had taken on that tender tone. She could not have failed in that dramatic moment, but now she was half afraid of her undertaking. Well, her hands dropped to her sides, she had given her word; she had promised herself in an heroic surrender and her very doubts seemed to sanctify the act.
For a long time she sat by the fire, half undressed, her immature thin arms hanging loosely, her sombre eyes staring at the fire. She wished this night might go on for ever, this time of ecstasy between a promise and its fulfilment. She had seen disillusionment in another and did not laugh at its possibility for herself; it would come to her, she thought, as it had come to her mother, who had hoped her daughter would find happiness in love; and Henrietta wondered if that gentle spirit was aware of what was happening.
The thought troubled her a little, and from her mother, who had been a neglected wife, it was no more than a step to that other, lying on her back, tortured and lonely. If Christabel Sales had a daughter, what would be her fierce young thoughts about this thief, sitting by the fire in a joy which was half misery? Yet she was no thief: she was only picking up what would otherwise be wasted. It seemed to her that life was hardly more than a perpetual and painful choice. Some one had to be hurt, and why should it not be Christabel? Or was she hurt enough already? And again, what good would she get from Henrietta’s sacrifice? No one would gain except Henrietta herself, she could see that plainly, and she was prepared to suffer; she was anxious to suffer and be justified.
The coals in the grate began to fade, the room was cold and she was tired. Slowly she continued her undressing, throwing down her dainty garments with the indifference of her fatigue. She feared her thoughts would stand between her and sleep, but, when she lay down, warmth gradually stole over her and soothed her into forgetfulness. She slept, but she waked to unusual sounds in the house: a door opened, there were footsteps on the landing and then a voice, shrill and frightened. She jumped out of bed. Sophia was on the landing; Rose was just opening her door; Susan, decently covered by a puritanical dressing-gown, had been roused by the noise. Caroline was in pain, Sophia said. She was breathing with great difficulty. “I told her she ought to take a shawl,” Sophia sobbed.
Fires had to be lighted, water boiled and flannels warmed, and the voice of Caroline was heard in gasping expostulation. Henrietta dressed quickly. “I’m going for the doctor,” she told Rose, who was already putting on her coat, and Henrietta noticed that she still wore her evening gown. She had not been to bed, and for a moment Henrietta forgot her Aunt Caroline and stared at her Aunt Rose.
“I am going,” Rose said quietly. “Oh, hadn’t you better stay here? Aunt Sophia is in such a fuss.”
“We’ll go together,” Rose said. “I can’t let you go alone.”
Henrietta laughed a little. This care was so unnecessary for one who had given herself to a future full of peril.
They went out in the cold darkness of the morning, walking very fast and now and then breaking into a run, and with them there walked a shadowy third person, keeping them apart. It was strange to be yoked together by Caroline’s danger and securely separated by this shadow. They did not speak, they had nothing to say, yet both thought, What difference is this going to make? But on their way back, when the doctor had been roused and they had his promise to come quickly, Henrietta’s fear burst the bonds of her reserve. “You don’t think she is going to die, do you?”
Rose put her arm through Henrietta’s. “Oh, Henrietta, I hope not. No, no, I’m not going to believe that, “and, temporarily united, the third person left behind though following closely, they returned to the lighted house. As they stood in the hall they could hear the rasping sound of Caroline’s breathing.