“My speech put you to sleep,” he laughed; “so I just tucked you in and slipped off.”
“I wasn’t asleep at all,” she said. “Just dozing.”
“And I didn’t run away at all,” he mimicked; “I just slipped off. But, isn’t there something you want?”
“No.” She moved on. “Good-night. I’m off to bed. It’ll be a hard day to-morrow with customs and trunks. Good-night.”
She was assured, but she would have given much to have been able to ask him questions. She could not; her pride forbade, that pride which Richard had accused her of more than once and which she had confessed to no one but herself and Richard. Obstinacy was a good name for it; so was independence and strong will and masterfulness. It was the quality that made her dominant wherever she moved and, at the same time, often mastered her and kept her from what she desired most. Having gone so far as the man’s room in her fear, and having found, as she thought, that fear to have been groundless, she was too proud to admit her praiseworthy weakness.
Richard followed her down the corridor to a door that opened on the lower deck. “Good-night,” he called after her softly. “Call again!”
She waved a hand lightly in recognition of his playfulness. But she did not go to her room. With confident step she ascended the tipping stairs and took her accustomed seat among the pillows.
The group had dispersed. Only Geraldine remained, crouched in her chair in the same position.
The mother hummed an air as she adjusted the pillows and rugs. Everything was all right. The unfortunate stoker or passenger, or whoever it was, was not Walter. So spoke the external Mrs. Wells, backed by a pride that never admits defeat. After all her interest in the two selves, the self of consciousness and the subliminal self of our deepest instincts and beliefs, Mrs. Wells did not know that all her assumption of serenity was a bit of acting. She really did not know. When the cry from within told her that no one but Richard could be the “big chap,” the “blue-eyed chap,” the “chap with the hearty laugh, who is always tramping the deck”; and that no one but Walter could correspond to that thick-voiced small man with the suggestion of an inebriate—when her strong instinct for the truth cried out to her she shut the door, would not listen, summoned her wishes and willed them to be the truth.
So she hummed, and appeared serene. Evidently, thought Geraldine, Richard has fibbed to her. Richard meant well, but it was man’s mistaken chivalry to woman and to age. He did not know her mother. He did not know that her life had been a series of notable successes against hard conditions and that every success won by her will had made her invincible against opposition. And he did not know that with the successes had gone unspeakable blunders. After the event Mrs. Wells had often admitted frankly that she had been wrong, but always after the event. It took one year’s failure of the grape crop to convince her, against every authority, that her spray mixture was faulty. It took the breaking of old Israel’s leg to convince her that a certain nervous mare was dangerous. And so on and so on. Her answer always was, “We shall see”; and if anyone had had the courage to flaunt her with a list of the failures of judgment, she might have invited such a one to strike a balance of her successes. Six hundred acres of land, mostly under cultivation, besides interests in mortgages and shares in local wine companies—these had engaged her judgment also, and to show for it was what seemed on the surface to be a sound financial success.