“I thought so,” said Teresa with difficulty.
There was a pause.
“I don’t think I understand,” said Sylvia slowly. “Don’t people always know?”
The carriage rattled over rough stones and tram lines.
“No,” said Teresa. “Not always.”
“How funny! I know.”
“I hope you will be very fortunate, dear,” replied her sister, looking wistfully at her, and again over-estimating the power of the sweet face. “I think you will.”
“Of course,” Sylvia answered happily. “You see, Walter told me that he was fond of me, so I know. I suppose some people only imagine things? You must have imagined. Poor Teresa; and I wonder how you could! I think I should have found out.”
Donna Teresa that night stood looking from her window. Above the houses, Orion, brave hunter, strode across the sky, his dog at his heels, and soft fleecy clouds flying before him. For midwinter the air was extraordinarily mild. Sylvia’s innocent words had stirred gnawing memories, which never altogether left her. How miserable she had been! What humiliations she had endured! It had been in a certain measure her remembrance of this, and her dread lest Sylvia’s face should attract another marchese, which had made her, perhaps, unduly anxious for the solid, unromantic engagement with Wilbraham to come about. She had weighed and judged him. She thought him cold, unsympathetic, reserved, yet was sure he might be trusted, and never had the least doubt that he knew his own mind, and would keep to it. Why was not this still sufficient for her? At times it was, land at all times she fell back upon it for support. But there were moments when she could not convince herself, when in comparison with other women—never with herself—poor Sylvia’s limitations stared at her. Then she flung herself into the gap. Then, as this afternoon, she dug into her own stores, brought forth all her powers, exerted herself, covered Sylvia, and never once thought that here lay danger. On the contrary, she believed that she often failed, and laughed ruefully at the remembrance of Wilbraham’s sudden movement of escape.
But if it were all in vain! If he were beginning to realise a dreadful mistake! If before Sylvia there lay long unloved years, and before Wilbraham the heavyweight of weary disappointment—what then?