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There stood the exquisite Sally; stood, because she was afraid to sit. Round her slender body she held tightly the new wrap Jocelyn, among other things, had bought her on their way through London and had instructed her to keep on till he told her to take it off. It was grey, so as to make her as invisible as possible, and was of the kind that has neither sleeves nor fastenings; and Sally, who had never been inside a thing like that before, clutched it with anxious obedience about her with both hands.
Extravagantly slender in this garment, which took on as if by magic the most delicious folds directly it got hold of Sally, and too lovely to be credible, she stood there, her lips parted in fright, and her eyes fixed on the entering Mrs. Luke.
‘Oh——’ said Mrs. Luke, catching her breath, who had read poetry, who had heard music, who knew what April mornings in the woods are like, when the sun shines through windflowers and the birds are wild with young delight.
Sally’s knees shook. She clutched the grey wrap tighter still about her. Mr. Luke’s mother was so terribly like Mr. Luke. Two of them. She hadn’t bargained for two of them. And she was worse than he was, because she was a lady. Gentlemen were difficult enough, but they did every now and then cast themselves at one’s feet and make one feel one could do what one liked for a bit, but a lady wouldn’t; a lady would always stay a lady.
The word struck cold on Sally’s heart. What did one do with a lady? And a lady, too, who seemed hardly older than her son, and as wide-awake and sharp as you please, Sally was sure. She had been imagining Jocelyn’s mother old and stout and whitehaired, and perhaps not able to see or hear very well, and therefore comfortingly slow to mark what was done amiss. And here was this thin, quick, almost young lady. No flies on her for dead certain, thought Sally, clutching her wrap.
Her heart, which felt as if it had already sunk as far as it could go, contrived to sink still farther. She stared at Mrs. Luke with the fascinated fear of a rabbit confronted by a snake; but her stare, which felt inside just as ugly and scared as that, was outside the most beautiful little look of gracious shyness, and Mrs. Luke, staring back, was for a moment quite unable to speak.
Who was this? Had Jocelyn caught and married some marvellous daughter of a patrician house? Had he been up to Olympus, and netted the young Aphrodite as, on that morning of roses, she stepped ashore from her shell?
She flushed scarlet. The perfect grace and youth, the dream-like loveliness....
‘Why,’ she murmured under her breath, ‘how beautiful——’ and took a step forward, and held out both her hands.
‘Are you really my new daughter?’ she said in a low voice. ‘You?’
With a great effort Sally managed to stand her ground, and not shrink away backwards before this alarming figure. She didn’t know what to do about the held out hands, because if she let go of the wrap so as to shake them it would fall off, and Jocelyn had said she was on no account to let it do that.
She therefore stood motionless, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
Mrs. Luke came close. ‘You wonderful child—you’re Salvatia?’ she murmured.
With a great effort Sally continued to hold her ground; with a great effort she unclove her tongue.
‘That’s right,’ she said, clutching her grey wrap.
Two words; but enough. How many times had not Jocelyn told her not to say That’s right? But he had told her not to say nearly everything; she couldn’t possibly remember all the things she wasn’t to say, however hard she tried. Indeed, Sally in her flustered soul was thinking what a mercy it was she hadn’t added ‘mum.’ It had been on the tip of her tongue, faced by a lady, and she had hung on to it just in time.
Mrs. Luke, startled, was arrested for an instant in her advance. Then, not after all quite certain that she had heard what she had heard—it seemed impossible that she should have—she went close up to Sally and kissed her. She had to reach up to her for Sally was half a head the taller, besides being rigid with fright.
‘Sally, kiss my mother and make friends,’ said Jocelyn.
‘Yes, Mr. Luke——’ said Sally, making a quick downward lunge of her head.
‘Now, Sally——please,’ protested Jocelyn. ‘She can’t,’ he added, turning to his mother, ‘get used to calling me by my Christian name.’
‘Sorry,’ said Sally; and felt so very warm that she had a queer conviction that even her stomach must be blushing.
Mrs. Luke stood looking at her, trying to smile. She now knew everything. No need for words from Jocelyn, for explanations. She knew, and she understood. Up to her to behave well; up to her to behave wonderfully, and make him more than ever certain there was no one in the whole world like his mother.
‘She’ll learn,’ she said, smiling as best she could. ‘Won’t you—Salvatia?’
If only, thought Sally, she were back at Woodles; if only, only she were back safe and quiet with her father at Woodles.
‘It was inevitable,’ said Mrs. Luke, turning to Jocelyn. ‘Absolutely inevitable.’
He caught hold of his mother’s hands. That she should see that, that she should instantly understand....
‘And I congratulate you with all my heart, my dear son, and my dear daughter,’ Mrs. Luke went on, continuing to be wonderful. ‘You are both my dear, my very dear, children.’
And Jocelyn bent his head over her hand, and kissed it in a fervour of gratitude and relief.
And Sally, looking on at Usband in this new light, thought, ‘Well, I’m blest.’