“What? Tell me. There’s no harm in telling me now. The whole ship’s talking of it.”
“So far as I know there’s nothing definite. I haven’t heard Margaret or my father or my mother say one word about it. All I have to go on is that I saw him kiss her, and he still comes to the house, and they seem friendly enough. There may be a hitch. Ordith said it was unofficial; and it’s not for me to question Margaret. There it stands. You know all I can tell you, John. These good people may be beforehand with their rumour, but I’m afraid they’re on the right track.”
“Thanks,” said John, after a pause; “now I know, anyhow.”
CHAPTER XX
WINGFIELD ALTER
John’s request to leave the Service did not find his mother wholly unprepared. Her realization of the mistake he had made had been earlier than his own, and for many months now she had considered the possibility of obtaining his release should he demand it. The difficulties were, as John knew, wholly financial. She could afford to pay the sum which the Admiralty would require as the price of his liberty, but she could not re-educate him as she felt it was essential he should be re-educated. If he abandoned the Service he would have to earn his living as an unqualified man. Journalism? She had heard enough from Wingfield Alter to teach her the meaning of life in the lower ranks of provincial journalism. And the alternatives for the unqualified were a clerkship in a City office or manual labour.
To Wingfield Alter, from whom she might have sought the advice and assistance she so badly needed, she would not go. On the evening after the arrival of John’s letter her resolution on this point nearly gave way. The need was imperative. It was her son’s need, not her own. And Wingfield Alter would help abundantly and willingly—she knew that. Yet, it was impossible to approach him. If it had been no more than advice she needed she might not have hesitated; but it was money—money. No fair words, no tact of his or hers could disguise that fact. And before he helped her son he would ask her to marry him. She foresaw that quite clearly. Her request for help would, in effect, be a request for a proposal.
She closed her eyes, pressing the lids tightly together.
When she opened them her mind was made up. Years ago, when it was impossible that they should marry, she and Alter had cared for each other too well and with too much silent restraint for her to spoil it all now. Because she had been married no word of love had passed between them. When the strain became unendurable, he had gone away with his wife, leaving her to dream through a few months, and then to marry John’s father. And now, John’s father being dead and Alter’s wife too, they met again. She knew he loved her still, but he had said nothing. Why she could not imagine. He must know; he must have seen. She had no doubt of him—why should he have doubt of her? Why? Heaven knew! She would do no more. She would not go to him.
She could not go to him.