Now the feudal feeling still lingers in English villages, and no self-respecting tenant chooses to range herself against the Squire. The cook’s mother, no doubt, lived in a cottage owned by the Squire, and enjoyed perquisites of various sorts which she had no disposition to throw away. Beside the kitchen fire there had, no doubt, been a lengthy conference over that rumour, and the mother had said, “Don’t you do it, Mary Jane. If the ladies are across with the Squire, how’ll he take it if he hears my daughter’s in their service? And half a dozen people with their eyes on this cottage as it is. A nice thing it would be for me if I got notice to quit!” The gardener’s mother had probably presented the same argument to him, and the good people who had eyed us askance on Sunday morning were probably reflecting to themselves, “They look all right, but you never know! There was evidently something very unpleasant about that lease. Poor General Underwood, too. Well, we won’t be in a hurry to call. We will just wait and see!”
I felt horribly depressed, and somehow Charmion’s utter indifference made me feel worse. I do love to be liked; it would poison me to live in an atmosphere of prejudice and suspicion, but she doesn’t appear to care. I have a curious conviction that to be socially ostracised would be just what she would prefer. Books, the garden, my companionship—these would supply her need. New claims would be rather a bore.
I am not made like that. I need more. I feel horribly depressed.
Charmion saw it, and spoke out before we went to bed.
“You are worrying, Evelyn. That disagreeable autocrat has succeeded in prejudicing our neighbours against us, and it hurts you. Well, nothing is irrevocable. Say the word, and we will leave the house to-morrow, and put up a bill—to let!”
I jumped nearly out of my skin, with horror and amazement.
“Never! Not for the world. My pride wouldn’t let me even if I wanted to do it, and I don’t—I don’t! I love the house and the life with you even more than I expected, it’s only that I’m sorry about. I do like to live at peace with all men. Doesn’t it worry you, Charmion, to feel yourself unjustly accused?”
“It would have done once. At your age. Since then”—her eyes took the blank, far-away look which always attended even the faintest allusion to the past—“since then I have lost the power of caring. When one has borne the one big hurt, the gnats have no power to sting.”
I looked up eagerly, but she rose from her seat, pressing one hand gently over my eyes.
“No! Don’t ask me! You have been very sweet, very forbearing. One great reason why my heart went out to you, Evelyn, was that you never questioned, never tried to probe. Go on being patient! Some day you shall know. I should like to tell you now, but I can’t, I can’t! You must wait. Some day the impulse will come, then it may be a relief. Till then, Evelyn, you must wait!”