“Oh! I see!”
Timothy turned his back upon her, staring down upon all the green that came up like a river to the walls of the house. His eyes were grave, his back square, his hands locked tight. He heard the scratching of his sister’s pen—otherwise there was deep silence about them. He wheeled round.
“Harriet, look here! I’ve never—no, I think, never—asked you a favour.”
She turned in her chair and faced him, looking up to him with her wide, rather sleepy, kindly eyes—now a little humorous, even a little cynical.
“No, Tim—never,” she said.
“Well, I’m going to ask you one now.”
“Yes?” Her eyes never flickered nor stirred from his.
“It’s this. I like the young man—like him, for God knows what reason. I think I must myself once have seen the world as he does. I know I believed that it could be such a splendid world with such a little effort—if only everyone were nice to everyone. I understand young Philip—I believe that this is a crisis in his life and in Katherine’s. There are three possible endings to the engagement. He can marry her, carry her off and live his own life. He can marry her, not carry her off and live your life. The engagement can break down, and he disappear back to where he came from. You love Katherine, you are determined not to lose her, therefore you intend to make the first impossible. You see that Katherine is so deeply attached to him that it will break her heart if he goes—therefore the last is not to be. There remains only the second. To that you devote all your energies. You are quite selfish about it. You see only yourself and Katherine in the matter. You see that he is weak and afraid of you.... You will break him in, then turn him into the paddock here to graze for the rest of his life. It would serve you right if Katherine were to run away with him.”
“She won’t do that,” said Mrs. Trenchard quietly.
“Who knows? I wish she would, but she’s faithful, faithful, faithful down to the soles of her shoes.... Bless her!”