"Yes, mamma," she said; "I am sure of that. I have tried not to lose the joy of life."
"So right, darling!" said Mrs. Fanshawe, in a dreadful little cooing voice. "And we have helped each other, I hope, in that. I know you have helped me. I will not let my life be spoiled and broken; it would grieve him so."
She paused a moment with handkerchief-ritual, and with her head a little on one side, spoke with childlike timidity.
"It was lovely being taken care of again," she said, "though only in a little matter like having a parcel carried. Are you going now, dear? Enjoy yourself, my sweetest, and stop till the very end of your concert. I know what a treat music is to you; I would not have you miss a note."
Elizabeth felt the need of air after this interview, and having an hour yet to spare before she need think of going to the concert, went down the broad, quiet street and on to the Thames Embankment at its lower end. She felt stifled by this atmosphere of insincerity from which she had come; she choked at the pitiful nauseating deception that she believed almost deceived her stepmother and caused her to refer to the duty of behaving as her late husband would have had her behave, at all her little subterfuges for facilitating her own arrangements. The falseness of it all was so blatant, so palpable that it would not have deceived a baby, and yet Elizabeth was not wrong in thinking that it largely deceived the very author of it. Her acting might not appear at all life-like to her audience, but it seemed real to herself. For years she had, while diligently pursuing paths of complete selfishness, been employed, so to speak, on modelling a figure of herself, that was winning, child-like, and trustingly devoted to the love of others, and now regarding that, with conscious approval, she had come to believe that it was the very image of herself. And Elizabeth felt sure (and again was not mistaken) that Mrs. Fanshawe was even now getting herself into another graceful pose for the reception of Sir Henry. To say that she was deliberately laying herself out to attract him would have been the coarsely true way of putting it, but things that were coarse and things that were true were almost equally abhorrent to Mrs. Fanshawe's mind. She told herself that she owed a great debt to Sir Henry for his kindness and sympathy at her husband's death, a debt that she would never be able to repay. She was bound to treat him as an old friend, to confide in him her plans for the future; to tell him how she was "oh, so content" to live quietly here, devoting her life to Elizabeth, who was so sweet to her. And she would somehow make it appear that it was her own sweetness, not Elizabeth's, that she was really talking about. She would hint that she was a great deal alone, but that it was by her own wish that Elizabeth spent so many evenings enjoying herself with hearing music. Elizabeth was right, "oh, so right!" to do it. And Elizabeth, thinking over these things, executed a few wild dance steps on a lonely piece of the Embankment, from sheer irritation at the thought. She wondered also whether her stepmother would show Sir Henry the written chapters of the Memoir. She rather thought not.
This little ebullition of temper passed, and she let her mind quiet down again as she leaned her elbows on the stone balustrade and looked out over the beautiful river, which brimmed and swirled just below, for the tide, near to full flood, was pouring up from the sea, still fresh and strong and unwearied by its journey. Barges were drifting up with it in a comfortable, haphazard sort of fashion, and a great company of sea-gulls hovered near, chiding and wheeling together. The hour was a little after sunset, and the whole sky was bright with mackerel-markings of rosy cloud, and the tawny river, reflecting these, was covered with glows and gleams. Opposite, the trees in the park were dim in the mist of fresh green that lay over them, blurring the outlines which all the winter had stood stark and clear-cut under cold, grey skies. And the triumphant tide of springtime which flushed everything with the tingle of new growth, unfolding the bells of the tulips in the patches of riverside garden, and making the sparrows busy with gathering sticks and straws for their nestings, sent a sudden thrill through Elizabeth's heart, and she was conscious again, as she had not been for many weary weeks, of the youth and glory of the world. From the great sea of life came the vivifying wave, covering for the moment the brown seaweed tangle of her trouble that had lain dry and sun-baked so long, flushing and freshening and uplifting it.
Relieved of its irritation, and refreshed by this good moment of spring evening, her mind went back to her stepmother. She felt sure that it was her intention to marry that jolly old warrior, if it could possibly be managed, and that she was going to employ all her art in the shape of her artlessness and simplicity to bring that about. It was but eight months since her husband had died, but, after all, what did that matter? The actual lapse of time had very little to do with the question, and she would be sure to have touching and convincing reasons for such a step. It had seemed horrible at first to Elizabeth, but where, after all, was the horror? Of course, her dead husband would have wished her to be happy. Elizabeth knew her father well enough to know that, and it was only horrible that she should give (as she undoubtedly would) as a reason for her marrying again what she knew his wishes would be on the subject. Whether Sir Henry would be brought up to the point was another matter, and on this Elizabeth had no evidence except her stepmother's account of their meeting. But clearly Mrs. Fanshawe thought that things promised well.
Elizabeth's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Only once had the grass sprung up on that far-distant grave; not yet had the Memoir, so quickly taken in hand, been completed.
"Daddy, daddy!" she said aloud.