“And there’s another thing. You talk about rights. It’s not only your right. The children—our children—they have their right to be born. Well—and if he is killed and you are poor—you’ll be able to feed a child, and clothe it, and teach it to read, I suppose—if you can’t send it to Eton. You give it life anyway, and love, and care. That ought to be good enough. ‘What porridge had John Keats’?”
“But—you talk,” Annabel whimpered. “I only want Robin.”
Laura, pulled up short, stared at her a moment. Then she laughed.
“I know. Of course. Of course I know. And—and—” she flushed prettily. “All I meant—I only mean, my dear—it’s no business of mine—but if you want backing, I’ll back you. There’s a telephone in the next room. He’s at Maidstone, isn’t he? It’s a trunk call. Aunt Adela won’t be in till supper. You go and talk things over with Robin.”
And the end of it was that Annabel and Laura went up to town by an early train one fine morning, for a day’s shopping. And indeed they did buy various trifles, besides a white coat and skirt, and a white beaver hat, and an inconspicuous bunch of lilies of the valley with a sprig of orange blossom tucked away in the middle—but they were a present from Laura. Laura came home alone with a note for Mrs. Moulde and another for Mrs. Gedge in her pocket (she thrust them through the letter-boxes and fled) and, as I told you, was cold-shouldered by the vicarage long after Robin and Annabel had been forgiven.
But though Mrs. Cloud included the vicarage set in her visitors’ list, the vicarage set could not claim the honour of including Mrs. Cloud. At any rate, Mrs. Cloud gave no sign of disapprobation: might have been thought, indeed, to be kinder of late to Laura. But Mrs. Cloud was always kind. Certainly it did Laura no harm to be met at the Priory more often than usual by Brackenhurst: indeed, as she called in for the third day running on some small errand—a basket of early primroses, I believe, that a school child had given her, but that were so obviously grown for the great glass bowl in the yellow parlour that she had to pass them on—she thought, to herself, she would not permit herself to think, that it was like old times....
CHAPTER XXXIII
Laura handed her basket to the maid, but she had not long to wait. Mrs. Cloud was at home, quite eagerly at home to an opportune Laura. Laura wondered at the warmth of her greeting, at the gaiety of her air.