II
Hal Willoughby’s careless parting kiss remained the only one that Adela was destined to receive.
For ten years more she lived with her mother, and heard her say proudly to other mothers, coming with the news of Mollie’s engagement, or Dolly’s beautiful new baby:
“Ah, I still keep my Adela, I’m glad to say. She’s almost too fastidious, I sometimes think. She’s never made herself cheap with anyone. And then there’s her writing, too.”
Adela had slowly been making a name for herself, but her great success only came after her mother’s death. A long novel, at which she had been working for several years, made her reputation in the world of letters.
She had inherited money from her mother, and her books brought her in more.
Adela was able to indulge in artistic necessities.
It became imperative that she should retire, whenever she wanted to write, to a Yorkshire moor with an atmosphere of ruggedness and strength, and very few trees.
So many journalists, so many fellow-writers, such a number of the new-born coterie that “followed the Adela Alston method” had inquired so earnestly in what peculiar setting Adela found it necessary to enshrine her inspiration, that the need of the Yorkshire moor had suddenly sprung, full-grown, into being.
She built a two-roomed cottage, engaged a caretaker, and wrote in a small summer-house, wearing knickerbockers and sandals, and smoking violently. This was in the summer. In the winter, inspiration was obliged to content itself with Hampstead, and Adela had to wear shoes and stockings and a skirt.
At forty she had gained greatly in assurance, and knew herself for the leading spirit in a small group of intensely modern women writers, by whom she was devoutly worshipped.
Adela became accustomed to being the person who was listened to, in the society of her fellows.
They were not only interested in her work, but deeply, intensely interested in herself.
“You know almost too much of human nature, Adela. It’s not decent.”
Adela enjoyed being told that.
“I’ve seen all sorts in my time,” she said musingly.
It would no longer have pleased her to be thought younger than she was. On the contrary, she was apt to emphasise in herself the aspect of a full maturity.
“That last study of yours is simply magnificent. Dear, I don’t wonder you’ve never chosen to marry. No man’s vanity could survive your insight.”
A newcomer to the group leant forward eagerly. Her characteristic was lack of self-restraint, which she acclaimed in herself as fearlessness.
“But you’ve known the great realities—you’ve known passion,” she urged foolishly. “You could never write as you do, otherwise.”
Adela gazed at her new disciple from under drooping eyelids. “I am not ashamed of it,” she said quietly. “I am proud of it.”
The girl nodded with grotesque, unconscious vehemence.
The two other women-friends of Adela who were present, exchanged a meaning look with one another. Each had heard Adela’s story before, had shown loyal pride and understanding. There was no need of further demonstration from them. Adela was looking at the girl.
“There was one man in my life,” she said low and deeply. “There is never more than one—that counts. And a woman who has never loved, never been loved, never met her mate—has never lived.”
The room was tensely silent.
“It was more than ten years ago, and I have outlived the poignancy of it. I have never seen him since—I never shall. But I make no secret of having known fulfilment.”
Her voice was low and rich with intense enjoyment of her own effect.
“Even now, though, when all the storm and stress is long, long past—it’s odd, but the scent of a syringa in bloom can still hurt me. You see—I was swept right off my feet.”
She paused before concluding with the words that she had unconsciously learnt by heart, so significantly did they always round off her retrospect.
“I had waited for him all my life. He asked everything, and I gave—everything.”
“Ah!”
“You splendid woman!”
Adela leant back again, her large eyes gazing abstractedly into the past, full of a brooding satisfaction. Her lips exhaled a sound that was barely audible.
“Hal Willoughby!”
Time works wonders.
THE GALLANT LITTLE LADY