“I am not saying,” said Marion, “one way or another: but just it is him that I would ask if it were me.”
“About what—about what?” cried Evelyn, pressing her hands together. “If you know anything, tell me at least, what he has to do with it? What can I find out from him? what——”
“She has stopped playing,” said Marion and she added with a little severity, “You will see, if you think, that whether or no—— it’s best she should not hear.”
They said good-night to her shortly after, kissing her both of them, according to the formula which girls are trained to go through: and went upstairs, one after the other, slim girlish creatures, innocent neophytes in life, as one would have thought, devoid of its saddening knowledge, its disenchanting experiences—leaving behind them a woman who had seen much sorrow and trouble, yet who was less acquainted than either of them, it seemed, with certain mysteries and problems.
May left her in a state of agitation and excitement, such as Evelyn had not yet known in the trials of her own life. She felt that Archie’s future was in her hands, though he rejected her interposition so bitterly; and what was more, her husband’s future, the happiness of the good man who had so much trust in her. If she could restore his son to him and did not, because of any reluctance of hers, any shrinking from exertion, and mean or secondary feeling, as for instance, that no one would be grateful to her for what she did, how unworthy would that be. Gratitude! what is gratitude but a repayment, the return for which no generous spirit looks. It is as mercenary to insist upon gratitude as upon money or any other recompense. What would it matter if no one ever knew, if no one ever said, “thank you?” What was that when Archie’s young life, and still closer and dearer, her good husband’s happiness, were at stake.
Evelyn walked about the drawing-room for a long time with her hands clasped, and her head bent, and thoughts pursuing thoughts, a host of quickly succeeding and often conflicting resolutions and questionings, hurrying through her mind. The butler, weary of waiting, peeped in by a half-open door, and retreated again, overawed by her absorption, which neither saw nor heard. Her maid upstairs yawned and waited, astonished and indignant. She was not in the habit of keeping the household out of bed by any caprice of hers, and all the less could they excuse her for her forgetfulness now. It was almost midnight before she was roused with a start by the chiming of the clock, and hurrying out, found Saunders respectful, but displeased outside, to whom she proffered a hasty apology, which had to be repeated when her maid confronted her half asleep yet wholly indignant. For a ball, which the servants enjoy as much as their master, allowance may be made; but on a night when nothing was happening, when the master was away, and the ladies expected to be more easy to serve, less exacting, keeping earlier hours than usual! And next day consternation still more deep struck the house: for Mrs. Rowland went away, taking only a bag with her, and explaining briefly that she had business in London, but would be back on the third day. Rosamond proposed to go with her, and so did Marion. She only smiled at them both, and declared that she would be back again before they had packed their things. She did not even take her maid! which was a sort of insult to the house. A mistress who can “do” for herself, who can travel unattached, and dress her own hair, etc., is a disappointment in a house like Rosmore.
She went away on Tuesday, and late on Wednesday night James Rowland came home, a day or two earlier than he had been expected. To describe his astonishment and disappointment when he arrived, and found her gone, is more than words are capable of. He had almost turned back from his own door and disappeared again into the darkness, from which he had looked out with such a rising of comfort and happiness in his home-coming, and of hope for what might have happened while he was away. “Mrs. Rowland not at home!” he said, stumbling across his own threshold as though the place was strange to him: “why, you must be dreaming,” but Saunders would not be driven from his explanation. The mistress had received news that she had to act upon at once, and the master being away, she had gone up to London instead of him, Saunders supposed. She expected to be home on Friday at the latest, which was the day on which he too was expected home. Rowland appeared at the dinner-table, to the great astonishment of the girls, and with a countenance of disgust and impatience difficult to describe. “So she has left you planted,” he said with a sharp laugh. It was impossible, indeed, that a man could return home much wanting his wife, calculating upon her, and find her gone, without feeling himself an injured man. He called Marion into the library after and questioned her. “Where has she gone? What has come over her? There is not a line, not a word to explain.”
“She was going to London on business—whatever that may mean,” said Marion. “She did not open her lips to me.”
“But at least you know where she is gone?”
“Papa,” said Marion, “you can have observed very little if you have not observed that mamma does not give her confidence to me.”