Launa went across the moor to the “Cat and Fiddle.” Only by long walks could she kill the restlessness which overcame her. She was longing to hear some music again, and Lily’s letter arrived at exactly the very best time for Mr. Wainbridge.
Mr. Wainbridge wrote almost every day. He sent her books, music, and flowers. He tried to induce her to come to town. He told her that he loved her with a love of the soul, that his one longing was to comfort her, to endeavour to make up for the grief and despair of the past. She thought of him with interest. He possessed the glamour of a lover for her without any of the disadvantages of being enamoured herself. This was an affection of the mind—a soul-love that he felt for her; it lulled her into security. She resolved to leave in a week for London, there to begin her music again.
As she walked home across the moor, she thought of the days at “Solitude” with her father—she felt old and sad. Work only was left; her aspirations on first coming to London seemed the foolish yearnings of a child for the moon. She would do something—play, work, and forget with her heart and soul, and also she would care for some person. This unsatisfied longing for the woods, for her father and the old life must be crushed, and speedily. How easy it was to label her longings! She did not add the desire for one word from Paul to them, and yet that was the greatest one of all. Lily’s suggestion that she might intend to go to Canada again filled her with loathing. How could she face “Solitude”?
And so she and her maid journeyed to Victoria Mansions. Lily came to welcome her, and expressed herself as being enchanted with life, though really Jack and she were starting on an unsatisfactory wild-goose chase. Occasionally they had a day together—sometimes he merely came to dine when she was having a party. Sir Ralph spent many and long days with her; they went about together, and Jack waited. He had a firm belief in his own future with her. She would tire of this life and be glad to rest, and know he would care always.
When Launa had set her house in order, and had the piano tuned, she began to take music lessons again.
Mr. Wainbridge came at once to see her. She wanted to take up their friendship where they had left it before their letter-writing; he had added the letters, the wishes and imaginings of their separation to it. At first this intentional game of cross-purposes amused him. She would not understand what any one might have seen.
She wanted friendship, only bounded by all the old opinions, with love-making confined to books. There was a grey shadow between her and love-making. Mr. Wainbridge saw it and was patient.
About this time Launa met the Coopers. Mrs. Cooper was a relic as well as a relict—her one daughter Sylvia was of the present day. They were very poor, and Sylvia worked very hard.
Mrs. Cooper knew how to dress in silk or satin, decorated with lace; but to adapt herself to serge was quite beyond her capabilities. She was a woman who could only order a dinner of an era which is passing away. Clear soup, turbot, or cod-fish, with thick sauce, roast beef, a heavy pudding, plum or cabinet—no savoury—and for dessert candied fruit and oranges. Dainty dinners and economy were unknown to her. Sylvia did the housekeeping, and Mrs. Cooper wept. Her husband had been angelic, with a decided turn for unpunctuality, which is the prerogative of angels. This was a daily cross to his wife, and her husband bore her revilings with a saintly and irritating fortitude. Sylvia Cooper was pretty. She was small and pale, with browny green eyes and brown hair. She met Mr. George at Victoria Mansions; he had vainly tried to get introduced to her. He went to the editor of the Signal, the new paper which was to be the signal for every one’s opinions—lords and ladies, ballet girls, actresses and actors, all wrote for it; only managers did not write for it, and they disliked it. The notoriety the publication of opinions brought was not always agreeable.