XXIII
I did not write to Hugo. George told him, and Guy wrote to me at once.
‘Congratulations and good wishes,’ he said; that was all.
Cousin Delia asked me to bring Walter down to see her I said I would, the next week-end.
Hugo wrote later:
‘Helen dear, I hope you will be happy. I hope you have chosen right. Other people cannot judge for you, not even we, who have known you best.’
I thought:
‘He does not mind. He does not like Walter, but he does not mind.’
Walter took me to see his mother. She looked old to be his mother; much older than Cousin Delia. She had light blue eyes like his, and fair hair. Her hair was not so grey as Cousin Delia’s, but her face was much more lined. She was small, and like a bird, with quick, nervous movements. She was dressed in purple; a purple silk bodice, with a high collar, up round her chin. She was very neat and slim, and her face was pink, like a soft apple.
She lived in a high house, with steep, dark stairs. There were Indian things in the room; weapons, and powder horns, and inlaid tables. Walter’s grandfather had been in India; he was an Indian merchant who traded in rice. There were water-colours on the walls, of cottages, and churches in green trees; old-fashioned, rather charming pictures, but the room was dark all the same; the curtains were dark and heavy, and there was too much furniture; I felt very much a stranger in that room.
Mrs. Sebright kissed me in a fluttering, half-frightened way.
‘My dear, I am so glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘Walter has talked to me often about you. I should like to have seen you before.’
She made me sit down in a big chair; it had a chintz cover with purplish flowers on it; faded, dull sort of flowers.
‘I must look at you,’ she said, ‘you must let me look at you, my dear!’
She put on her spectacles, and looked at me. It was natural that she should want to look, but I felt embarrassed.
‘Yes, you are very pretty, very pretty indeed! Walter told me so. Walter is always right.’
She gave a little nervous laugh.
‘We must make friends now,’ she said; ‘you see, it seems so strange to me, that I do not know you at all. Walter has been such a good son to me, such a devoted son, and good sons make good husbands, so they say. . . . I am sure my Walter will. You are a fortunate young lady, my dear, though I say it, and I am sure you will do your best to deserve him.’
I said I hoped I should. I liked her for thinking so much of Walter; she was so naive, and so single-hearted; the attitude of my friends would have been inconceivable to her.
And I thought:
‘She knows him much better than they do, after all.’
She said:
‘You must tell me all about yourself. Your parents are dead, I believe?’
I told her that my father was dead, and my mother had married again.
‘Poor dear, poor dear, so you were all alone?’
I told her about Cousin Delia and Yearsly.
I said:
‘I was with her long before, after my father died.’
‘Ah, yes; and you had cousins there, to play with, I believe?’
I said:
‘Yes; two cousins—Guy and Hugo.’
‘They must be almost like brothers to you now?’
I said:
‘Yes; almost.’
‘Walter knows them, I think? He knew them at Oxford.’
I said:
‘He does not know them very well.’
‘They would not be quite Walter’s type, perhaps . . . you see, Walter is so clever, he does not care much for people who are not . . . but he will, of course, my dear, later on, if they are your cousins. He has a most affectionate nature, and I am sure they are very nice young men!’
I suppose I did not respond, for she added quickly:
‘I did not mean, of course, that your cousins were stupid, Walter has never said such a thing to me, oh, not at all, but I thought from what he told me that they were . . . just . . . not quite like Walter . . . he has, of course, a quite exceptional brain.’
I said:
‘Oh no; my cousins are not like Walter; but I love them very much; I hope he will be friends with them, more, later on.’
I did not mind what Mrs. Sebright said; I did not mind what Walter had told her about them.
I thought:
‘She feels about Walter as I do about Hugo; I am glad that some one feels about him like that.’
Walter came in then. He had left me alone with his mother for a talk. He stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder, and looked at me.
‘Wasn’t I right, Mother?’ he asked softly. ‘Isn’t she all I said?’
He looked flushed and happy; his eyes were shining; I wished he would not wear those black steel spectacles.
Grandmother went to call on Mrs. Sebright. Grandmother was the only person who seemed really pleased at the engagement.
She said:
‘I like your young man. He has brains and character. You might have done worse. You won’t be well off, not at all well off; but that does not matter; we all value money too highly, and you will have enough when I die,’
I don’t know what she said to Mrs. Sebright, or Mrs. Sebright to her, but she was not displeased.
She said:
‘A good woman, I think, but a fool; he must get his brains from his father. Stupid women often have clever sons; perhaps the clever men marry them. She will not trouble you, Helen, she won’t interfere, but you must be kind to her, and attentive.’
I said that I would try. I was grateful to Grandmother for being pleased at all.