II
Nevertheless, instead of being pleased, Benedicta was affronted when the impossible girl came back. It was late one June afternoon, in the bright and tranquil hour before the sun goes down, and Benedicta, weary and idle, was in the sitting room, because it was proper for her to be in the sitting room.
She looked out of the window, because she was thoroughly tired of looking at the room. The fact of its being filled with genuine Colonial furniture of fine mahogany gave her no pleasure at all. The landscape, too, was uninspiring—a straggling, neglected garden, and a stretch of fields which had once been part of the Miller estate, but which had been first rented and then sold to farmers who did not object to working.
Something was coming along the road. She recognized the smart little roadster. It turned in at their gateway and stopped before their door.
It was a memorable interview. Indeed, it was a battle, and Miss Wilkinson conquered. In the most ordinary way, she made a preposterous suggestion.
“I want you to spend this week-end with us,” she said. “Please do!”
Benedicta, almost overcome, said that she had never spent a night away from home.
“Then begin now,” said Miss Wilkinson. “Please come! It’s going to be awfully nice. Two—”
“I’m sure it would be nice, but I really can’t,” said Benedicta firmly.
Miss Wilkinson seemed perfectly unaware that it is bad manners to press an invitation. She had taken a fancy to Benedicta’s dark beauty, with her sulky mouth and her unhappy eyes, and she was sorry for her. She kept on urging until Benedicta was obliged to point out to her that invitations must come not from daughters, but from mothers, and that she was not acquainted with Mrs. Wilkinson.
“All right!” said the other good-humoredly. “Then mother ’ll come to-morrow and ask you.”
“But—” Benedicta began.
She found it hard to go on. Impossible as Miss Wilkinson was, it was difficult to dislike her. The idea of a week-end in her company was terribly tempting. It was an invitation to be young for a little while.
“But,” Benedicta went on more gently, “you see, you live so near, it really seems absurd to stay overnight. I should like very much to come some afternoon—”
Miss Wilkinson had said a week-end, and a week-end she intended to have.
“If I could get her away from this ghastly house, the girl would be entirely different,” she thought. “Poor thing! She really wants to come, too.”
So she kept at it, and, being an obstinate creature, accustomed to her own way, she at last obtained Benedicta’s reluctant consent.
“I’ll come for you on Friday, before dinner,” she said gayly.
Off she went, well pleased with herself, and with Benedicta, and with almost everything else in the world.
But Mr. Miller! Better to pass over that[Pg 132] interview, for it accomplished nothing except to make both father and daughter very miserable. Even Mr. Miller was forced to admit that, as the invitation had been accepted, nothing could be done. All the Millers did what they said they would do, no matter how disastrous the consequences. All he wished was to say what he thought of this undignified, improper proceeding, and he did so.