‘Now all to the fore,’ said Justine, ‘and in a natural way, as if you were thinking of Father and not of yourselves. It is his occasion, not ours, you know. People do not return from a honeymoon every day.’
‘It is not the first time for Father,’ said Mark. ‘And Maria planned it for herself before.’
‘I wonder if Father will think of last time,’ said Aubrey.
‘Now I should not wonder that sort of thing,’ said his sister. ‘Just take it all simply and do what comes your way. The occasion is not without its demand. I do not find myself looking forward with too much confidence.’
‘Boys, can you look your father straight in the eyes?’ said Aubrey.
‘Will he want just that?’ said Mark. ‘Will he be able to do it with Uncle?’
‘Oh, why should he not?’ said Clement. ‘He need not hang his head for behaving like a natural man.’
‘That is a thing I never thought to see him do.’
‘I can still only think of Uncle as he was at the wedding,’ said Justine. ‘Easy, self-controlled, courteous! It was a lesson how to do the difficult thing. We have only to think of that example, if we find ourselves at a loss.’
‘Is Father in love with Maria?’ said Aubrey in a casual tone.
‘Yes, we must say that he is. The signs are unmistakable. We could not be in doubt.’
Aubrey did not ask if the same signs had been seen between his father and mother: he found he could not.
‘Come, Mr Penrose,’ said Justine, as the latter edged through the group. ‘If you want to slip away before the arrival, we will not say you nay. We know that it is our occasion and not yours.’
Mr Penrose responded to this reminder by hastening his steps.
‘Were you wondering about me?’ said Dudley, approaching from the stairs. ‘The scene would lose its point if I were not here. I shall not try to acquit myself as well as I did at the wedding. There are not enough people here to make it worth while. I hope the memory of me then will remain with them.’
‘It remains with us, Uncle.’
‘Justine spoke quietly and simply,’ said Aubrey.
‘That is not what I meant. Does it remain with Mr Penrose?’
‘Yes, indeed, Mr Dudley. Mrs Penrose and I found it a most enjoyable occasion. We have several times spoken of it.’
‘Oh, away with you, Mr Penrose,’ said Justine, with a laugh. ‘Your heart is not in the occasion as ours is. And indeed why should it be?’
Mr Penrose did not admit that he saw no reason.
‘I am most interested, Miss Gaveston.’
‘Of course you are, most interested; and what a feeling compared with ours! Away with you to the sphere which claims your feeling.’
Mr Penrose obeyed, but with some feeling over for the sphere he left.
‘Oughtn’t Aunt Matty to be here?’ said Mark.
‘No,’ said his sister. ‘No. I decided against it. You do not suppose that I have not given the matter a thought? We must break the rule that she is to be here on every occasion. We must not hand on such rules to Maria, ready made. Things cannot be quite the same for Aunt Matty here in future. Maria has a debt to her and doubtless will repay it, but the manner and method thereof must be her own. It may not be her choice to be confronted by her husband’s sister-in-law on her first home-coming. Aunt Matty will be with us at dinner, and that is as much as I felt I could take on myself.’
‘You and I are wasted on this occasion, Justine,’ said Dudley. ‘It must be enough for us if we have our own approval. My trouble is that I only care for other people’s.’
‘Uncle, you know you have enough of that.’
‘Is Maria very old to be a bride?’ said Aubrey.
‘Not as old as Father to be a bridegroom,’ said Mark.
‘Well, men marry later than women,’ said Justine.
‘Welcome to the bride and bridegroom,’ said Aubrey, raising his hand.
‘Welcome to your father and his wife,’ said his sister gravely.
‘Welcome to my brother and the woman who preferred him to me,’ said Dudley. ‘I am equal to it.’
‘I should not be, Uncle,’ said Justine, in a gentle aside. ‘I should put it out of my mind, once and for all. That is the way to gain your own good opinion and mine. Oh, here are the travellers! I feel we ought to raise a cheer.’
Aubrey gave her a glance.
‘I should suppress the impulse,’ said Clement.
‘Oh, you know what I mean.’
‘Well, so would everyone else.’
The scene was over in a minute. Maria was simple and ready, kind and natural; Edgar was stilted and sincere; and both were themselves. Dudley shook hands with both as if after an ordinary absence. His natural spareness and the flush of the occasion covered his being worn and pale. Maria kissed her stepchildren as if she had thought of nothing else, and took the head of the tea table without demur. She made some reference to Blanche in the course of supplying her family, and joined in the talk of her which followed. They felt that the situation was safe, and had a sense of permanence and peace. They had begun to talk when a trap drove up to the door.
‘Aunt Matty!’ said Aubrey.
‘That high trap!’ said Justine.
‘Is she not expected?’ said Edgar.
‘Not until dinner, Father. I thought it was all arranged. And that fidgety horse! Will she ever get down?’
Dudley and Mark and Jellamy were perceived to be approaching the scene, and Matty was set upon the ground.
‘Perhaps she has come to welcome me,’ said Maria.
‘She has come for no other reason,’ said Clement.
‘She comes!’ said Aubrey.
Matty came in and went straight up to Maria, her eyes seeking no one else.
‘My dear, I was so sorry not to be here to welcome you. The trap I had ordered did not come in time, and Miss Griffin had to go for it. I would not have had you arrive without a familiar face from the old world. You have so many from the new one.’
‘I have had a very good welcome.’
‘Yes, they are good children and mean to continue to be so. They are my own nephews and niece. But I feel that I am the bridge between the old life and the new, and I could not let you cross the gulf without it. The gulf is so much the widest for you.’
‘I am safely on the other side, with the help of them all.’
‘So you are, dear, and I will sit down and see it. I will have my chair, if I may. Thank you, Dudley; thank you, Mark; thank you, my little nephew. You are all ready and willing; you only want a little reminder. I will sit near to Maria, as it is she who is glad of my presence. Do not let me displace you, Edgar; that is not what I meant. We will sit on either side of her and share her between us. We are used to that sort of relation. I want to feel that this second time that I give you your life companion, is as much of a success between us as the first.’ Matty gave Edgar a swift, bright look and settled her dress.
There was a pause.
‘We did not know you were coming,’ said Justine, ‘or we would have sent for you.’
‘You asked me to come, dear. I should have done so, of course, but you did remember the formality. But it was for dinner that you said. I did not know that they were expected so early. I only found it out by accident.’
‘We did not mean to give a wrong impression.’
‘No, dear? But you said for dinner, I think.’
‘I did not know you expected - that you would want to be here for their arrival. We thought they would have a rest, and that you would see them later.’
‘Have a rest, dear?’ said Matty, with a glance round and a twitch of her lips.
‘Well, stay with us for a little while, and then go upstairs by themselves and meet everyone at dinner.’
‘Maria never rests in the day, even after a journey,’ said Matty, in the casual tone of reference to someone completely known to her.
‘I am finding all this a rest,’ said Maria.
Matty looked round again, with her mouth conscientiously controlled, but with a gleam in her eyes.
‘Well, can it be true?’ said Clement.
‘I am finding it a great strain,’ murmured Aubrey.
‘Hush, don’t whisper among yourselves,’ said their sister.
‘I think I will have some tea, Justine dear,’ said Matty. ‘Or am I to remember that I was only asked to dinner?’
‘Really, Aunt Matty, I shall not reply to that.’
‘I am afraid I am pouring out the tea,’ said Maria, laughing and taking up the pot.
‘Are you, dear? I thought you were having a rest, and that Justine would still be directing things. I have had no directions except from her.’
‘You could not have them from me until I returned.’
‘You did not write to me, I thought you would want to arrange your first day yourself.’
‘I did not think of it. I was content just to come home.’
‘No, no, Aunt Matty. You will not make bad blood between Maria and me,’ said Justine, shaking her head.
‘Bad blood, dear?’ said her aunt, in a low, almost troubled tone. ‘I did not think there was any question of that. I had put the thought away. I am sure there is none any longer. I am sure that all the little pinpricks and jealousies have faded away.’
‘Justine does not know what such things are,’ said Edgar.
‘Well, I said they had faded away, and that amounts to the same thing.’
‘It is on the way to the opposite thing.’
‘Dear Father, he has come back to his only daughter,’ said Justine.
‘Incontrovertibly,’ said Aubrey, looking down.
‘Well, am I to have any tea?’ said Matty.
‘When you stop holding everyone rooted to the spot,’ said Clement. ‘As long as they are petrified, they cannot give you any.’
‘Well, I must lift my spell. I did not know it was so potent. Some people have more power than others and must be careful how they wield it. Thank you, Dudley, and a penny for your thoughts.’
‘I was thinking that I had never made a speech which carried a sting.’
‘I was wondering when we were going to hear your voice. I have never known you so silent.’
‘I recognize the sting. I almost think that the gift of speech is too dangerous to use.’
‘What should we do without your talent in that line?’
‘I believe that is a speech without a sting.’
‘Oh, Aunt Matty, if you would only do it oftener!’ said Justine, sighing. ‘You don’t know how far you could go.’
‘Don’t I, dear? I sometimes think I should be left in a backwater. I admit that I sometimes feel driven to apply the goad.’
‘Aunt Matty, how wrong you are! If only you would realize it!’
‘It must be a trying obligation,’ said Maria.
‘If you can manage without it in your ready-made family, you are fortunate,’
‘I see that I am.’
‘And we all see that we are,’ said Mark.
‘I am sure - I hope we have many happy days before us,’ said Edgar.
‘Rest assured, Father, that we are not poaching on your preserves,’ said Justine. ‘Maria is yours, root, barrel and stock. We claim only our reasonable part in her.’
Aubrey looked at his sister.
‘You don’t understand my wholehearted acceptance of our new life, do you, little boy? When you get older you will realize that there is no disloyalty involved.’
‘It is a rich gift that I have brought you,’ said Matty, smiling at Edgar. ‘So do you think I may have it in my own hands for a time, while you and Dudley go and make up your arrears, and the young ones play at whatever is their play of the moment?’
The word was obeyed before it was considered. Edgar withdrew with his brother and his children found themselves in the hall.
‘If I were Maria,’ said Clement, ‘I would not let Aunt Matty order the house.’
‘She will not do so for long; do not fear,’ said his sister. ‘There are signs that she is equal to her charge. I am quite serene. And I was glad to see Father and Uncle go off in their old way. Uncle still has his brother. I don’t think anything has touched that.’
Edgar and Dudley were sitting in their usual chairs, their usual table between them, the usual box of Dudley’s cigars at Edgar’s hand.
‘The young people have given no trouble?’
‘None.’
‘You have not lavished too much on them?’
‘Nothing. They keep to what they have,’
‘Is there anything to tell about the house?’
‘The work goes on. Mark and I have had our eye on it.’
‘Dudley,’ said Edgar, keeping his voice to the same level but unable to control its tones, ‘I have always taken all you had. Always from the beginning. You did not seem to want it. Now, if I have taken something you did want -’
‘Oh, I am a great giver. And giving only counts if you want what you give. They say that we should never give away anything that we do not value.’
‘It is the rarest thing to be.’
‘Well, I don’t wonder at that. It seems to be one of those things which may end anywhere. We see that it has with us. But I had to follow my nature. It may have been my second nature in this case. It would be best to hide a first nature quickly, and I was very quick. I hope people admire me. To be admired is one of the needs of my nature; my first nature that would be. But I should only expect them to admire the second. It would not often be possible to admire first natures. I used to think that you and I only had second ones, but now we have both revealed our first, and it gives us even more in common.’
Edgar looked at his brother, uncertain whether to be cheered or troubled by the tangle of his words.
‘You find you are able - you can be with Maria and me?’
‘Yes. There is not so much of my first nature left as you fear. And I daresay it is best that I should not marry. If a man has to forsake his father and mother, he ought to forsake his brother, and I find I could not do that. I suppose you have forsaken me in your mind? You should have.’
Edgar looked up with a smile, missing what lay behind the words, and the cry from his brother’s heart went unanswered.
When Edgar’s children came down to dinner they found their aunt alone.
‘Well, here is the first evening of our new life,’ said Justine. ‘I feel easy and not uncheerful.’
‘Yes, I think so do I, dear,’ said Matty. ‘I think I can see my Maria over you all, as I could not see anyone else.’
‘I already see her taking her place at the table in my mind’s eye,’ said Justine, leaning back and closing her other eyes to give full scope to this one, ‘Easily and simply, as if she had always had it.’
‘Well, perhaps not quite like that, dear. That might not be the best way. I think she can do better.’
‘That would be well enough,’ said Mark.
‘I daresay she will take her place like anyone else,’ said Clement.
‘I think the boys admire their young stepmother, Justine,’ said Aubrey.
‘Well, we are at a difficult point,’ said Matty. ‘We are the victims of a conflict of loyalties. We must be patient with each other.’ She smiled at them with compressed lips, seeming to exercise this feeling.
Maria took her seat at the table as if she were taking it naturally for the first time.
‘The place is taken,’ murmured Aubrey.
‘And as I said it would be,’ said Clement.
‘Well, I want a little help in taking my place,’ said Matty. ‘I am not able to take it quite like that. Thank you, Edgar.’
‘I shall so enjoy shelving the household cares tomorrow,’ said Justine. ‘No housewife ever parted with her keys with less of a pang.’
‘You will give what help you can?’ said Edgar.
‘No, I shall not, Father. I know it sounds perverse, but a house cannot do with more than one head. Nothing can serve two masters. I go free without a qualm.’
‘I only serve one master,’ said Aubrey. ‘Penrose.’
‘Do you feel you would like a change?’ said Maria.
‘No, no, don’t pander to him, Maria; he will only take advantage. I mean, of course, that that is what I have found. You will form your own conclusions.’
‘Perhaps I shall find that I have learnt more from Penrose than many another lad at a great public school.’
‘I don’t know what ground you have for the view,’ said Mark.
‘It was just one of my little speeches. What would the house be without them?’
‘It would be better with Uncle and no one to copy him,’ said Clement.
‘Now, Clement, come, there is a real likeness,’ said Justine.
‘Clement is jealous of my genuine touch of Uncle.’
‘Does Dudley see the likeness?’ said Matty, with a faint note of sighing patience with the well worn topic.
‘I should think it is the last thing anyone would see, a likeness to himself,’ said her niece.
‘Should you, dear? The opposite of what I say. We are not all like your uncle.’
‘I make no pretence of lightness and charm. I am a blunt and downright person. People have to take me as I am.’
‘Yes, we do, dear,’ said Matty, seeming to use the note of patience in two senses.
‘Clement thinks that I try to cultivate them,’ said Aubrey, ‘and it makes him jealous.’
‘You may be wise to save us from taking you as we take Justine,’ said Clement.
Aubrey gave a swift glance round the table, and sat with an almost startled face.
‘Maria, what do you think of our family?’ said Justine. ‘It is full experience for you on your first night.’
‘It is better not to have it delayed. And I must think of myself as one of you.’
‘This is the very worst. I can tell you that.’
‘I have often been prouder of my sister’s children,’ said Matty.
Edgar and Dudley turned towards her.
‘I believe the two brothers are so absorbed in being together that no one else exists for them.’
There was a pause and Matty was driven further.
‘Well, it is a strange chapter that I have lived since I have been here. A strange, swift chapter. Or a succession of strange, swift chapters. If I had known what was to be, might I have been able to face it? And if not, how would it all be with us? How we can think of the might-have-beens!’
‘There are no such things,’ said Edgar.
‘We cannot foretell the future,’ said Mark. ‘It might make us mould our actions differently.’
‘And then how would it all be with us?’ repeated Matty, in a light, running tone. ‘Maria not here; Justine not deposed; nothing between your father and uncle; everything so that my sister could come back at any time and find her home as she left it.’
‘Is it so useful to have things ready for her return?’
‘It is hardly a dependable contingency,’ said Clement.
‘No, no,’ said Justine, with a movement of distaste, ‘I am not going to join.’
‘So my little flight of imagination has fallen flat.’
‘What fate did it deserve?’ said Edgar, in a tone which fell with its intended weight.
‘Did you expect it to carry us with it?’ said Mark.
Matty shrank into herself, drawing her shawl about her and looking at her niece almost with appeal. The latter shook her head.
‘No, no, Aunt Matty, you asked for it. I am not going to interfere.’
‘What do you say to the reception of a few innocent words, Dudley?’
‘I have never heard baser ones.’
Matty looked at Maria, and meeting no response, drew the shawl together again and bent forward with a shiver.
‘Have you a chill, Matty?’ said Dudley.
‘I felt a chill then. There seemed to be one in the air. I am not sure whether it was physical or mental. The one may lead to the other. I think that perhaps chills do encircle you and me in these days.’
‘That is not true of Uncle,’ said Justine. ‘He is safely ensconced in the warmth of the feeling about him.’
‘And I am not? I am a lonely old woman living in the past? I was coming to feel I was that. Perhaps I ought not to have come today, sunk as I was in the sadness of this return.’ Matty ended on a hardly audible note.
‘It was certainly not wise to come with no other feeling about it,’ said Mark.
‘No, it was not, because that was how I felt. So perhaps it is not wise to stay. I will make haste to go, and lift the damper of my presence. I feel that I have been a blight, that your first evening would have been better without me. I meant to come and join you in looking forward, and I have stood by myself and looked back. I am glad it has been by myself, that I have not drawn any of you with me.’ Matty kept her eyes on Mark’s, to protect herself from other eyes. ‘But I have been wrong in not hiding my heart. My father sets me an example in avoiding the effort destined to fail. I thought I could follow your uncle. I meant to take a leaf out of his book. But I can’t quite do it today. Today I must go away by myself and be alone with my memories. And I shall not find it being alone. And that is a long speech to end up with, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is rather long.’
‘Very well, then, go if you must,’ said Justine. ‘What does my hostess say?’
‘Oh, of course, I should not have spoken for her,’ said Justine, with a little laugh.
‘Justine has said the only thing that can be said. But the carriage cannot be here at once.’
‘Well, I will go and sit in the hall. Then I shall have left the feast. There will no longer be the death’s head at it. I shall be easier when I am not that. That is the last thing I like to be, a cloud over happy people. We must not underrate happiness because it is not for ourselves. It ought to make us see how good it is, and it does show it indeed.’
‘Who is going to see Aunt Matty out?’ murmured Aubrey.
‘Perhaps Dudley will,’ said Matty, smiling at the latter. ‘Then he and I can sit for a minute, and perhaps give each other a little strength for the different effort asked of us.’
Dudley seemed not to hear and Maria signed to her husband.
‘Aunt Matty would have been burned as a witch at one time,’ said Clement.
‘Does Clement’s voice betray a yearning for the good old days?’ said Aubrey.
‘Witches seem always to have been innocent people,’ said Mark.
‘That will do. Let us leave Aunt Matty alone,’ said Justine. ‘She may merit no more, but so much is her due.’
‘What does Maria say?’ said Dudley, in an ordinary tone.
‘We are all moving forward. And if Matty does not come with us, she will be left behind.’
‘She may pull herself up and follow,’ said Justine.
‘She will probably lead,’ said Clement.
‘She will not do that,’ said his father, returning to the room.
‘Has Aunt Matty gone already, Father?’ said Justine.
‘No. She asked me to leave her, and I did as she asked.’
After dinner it was the brothers’ custom to go to the library. Blanche had had her own way of leaving the room, pausing and talking and retracing her steps, and any custom of waiting for her had died away. Dudley put his arm through Edgar’s, as he had done through his life. Edgar threw it off with a movement the more significant that it was hardly conscious, and waited for his wife, giving a smile to his brother. Dudley stood still, felt his niece’s hand on his arm, shook it off as Edgar had done his own, and followed the pair to the library. He sat down between them, crossing his knees to show a natural feeling. Edgar looked at him uncertainly. He had meant to be alone with his wife and had assumed that his brother understood him. This withdrawal of Dudley’s support troubled him and shook his balance. Something was coming from his brother to himself that he did not know.
‘Does Maria mind smoke?’ said Dudley, knowing that she did not mind, knowing little of what he said.
‘No, not at all. I am used to it.’
‘I do not smoke; I never have; I get the cigars for Edgar.’
‘I could not afford them for myself,’ said Edgar.
‘I must give you some as a present,’ said his wife, feeling at once that the words would have been better unsaid.
Dudley looked at her and met her eyes, and in a moment they seemed to be ranged on opposite sides, contending for Edgar. Edgar sat in a distress he could not name, moving his strong, helpless hands as if seeking some hold.
‘They come from some foreign place,’ said Maria, taking up the box. ‘We shall have to depend on Dudley for them.’
Dudley lifted eyes which looked as if he were springing from his place, but held himself still. The silence held, grew, swelled to some great, nameless thing, which seemed to fill the space between them and press on their hearing and their sight. Edgar rose and showed by his rapid utterance as well as by his words how he was shaken out of himself.
‘What is this, Dudley? We cannot go on like this. We should not be able to breathe. What is it between us? It is not fair to give me everything, and then turn on me as an enemy.’
‘Not fair to give you everything?’ said Dudley, rising to bring his eyes to the level of his brother’s. ‘Do you think it is fair? Does it sound fair as you say it? For one person to do that to another? For the other person to take it? Or do you take it all, as you always have, you who know how to do nothing else? And turn on you as an enemy? What have you been to me but that? If you have never thought, think now.’
‘So it has come to this, Dudley. It has all been this. This has been before us, and so between us, all our lives. You have given me nothing. You wanted to have me in your hands in return. No one can give really, not even you; not even you, Dudley. I shall not think that any more of you. You are not different. Why did you let me think you were? I would not have minded; I could have taken you as you were; I did not want anything from you. And now I have lost my brother, whom I need not have lost if I had known.’
Edgar turned his face aside, and the simple movement, which Dudley knew was not acting, pierced him beyond his bearing and flung him forward. His pain and his brother’s, the reproach which he suffered in innocence and sacrifice, flooded his mind and blurred its thought.
‘You have lost your brother! Then know that you have lost him. Know that you speak the truth. You may be glad to be left with your wife, and I shall be glad to leave you. I shall be glad, Edgar. I have always been alone in your house, always in my heart. You had nothing to give. You have nothing. There is nothing in your nature. You did not care for Blanche. You do not care for your children. You have not cared for me. You have not even cared for yourself, and that has blinded us. May Maria deal with you as you are, and not as I have done.’
Maria stood apart, feeling she had nothing to do with the scene, that she must grope for its cause in a depth where different beings moved and breathed in a different air. The present seemed a surface scene, acted over a seething life, which had been calmed but never dead. She saw herself treading with care lest the surface break and release the hidden flood, felt that she learned at that moment how to do it, and would ever afterwards know. She did not turn to her husband, did not move or touch him. The tumult in his soul must die, the life behind him sink back into the depths, before they could meet on the level they were to know. She felt no sorrow that she had not shared that life, only pity that his experience had not found cover as hers had found.
Dudley went alone from his brother’s house, taking nothing with him but his purse and covering from the winter cold. He went, consciously empty of hand and of heart, almost triumphant in owning so little in the house that had been his home. As he passed Matty’s house, forming in his mind some plan for the night, he heard a sound of crying behind the hedge, which seemed to chime with his mood. He followed the sound, thinking to find some unfortunate who would make some appeal, and willing for the sense of being met as a succourer, and came upon Miss Griffin bent over the bushes in hopeless weeping. She raised her head and came forward at once, spreading her hands in abandonment to the open truth.
‘Miss Seaton has turned me out. I have been out here for some time. I haven’t anywhere to go, and I can’t stay here in the dark and cold. And I can’t go back.’ She looked round with eyes of fear, and something showed that it was Matty in relenting mood, with an offer of shelter, that she feared.
Dudley put his arm about her and walked on, leading her with him. She went without a word, taking her only course and trusting to his aid. Her short, quick, unequal steps, the steps of someone used to being on her feet, but not to walking out of doors, made no attempt to keep time or pace, and he saw with a pang how she might try the nerves of anyone in daily contact. The pang seemed to drive him forward as if in defiance of its warning.
‘You and I are both alone. People have not done well by us, and we have done too well by them. We should know how to treat each other. We will keep together and forget them. We had better be married, and then we need never part. We have both been cast out by those who should have served us better. We will see what we can do for ourselves.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ said Miss Griffin, in an almost ordinary tone, as if she hardly gave Dudley’s words their meaning. ‘Of course not. What a thing it would be! We could not alter it when it was done, and of course you would want to,’ Her voice was sympathetic, as if her words hardly concerned herself. ‘And what would people think? You can help me without that.’ The words stumbled for the first time. ‘If you want to help me, that is, of course.’
‘I was trying to serve myself,’ said Dudley, too lost in his own emotions to feel rebuff or relief. ‘I must serve you in some better way. You can think of one yourself. And now we must hurry on and get you under a roof.’
He walked to Sarah Middleton’s house, seeing his companion’s thinly covered feet and uncovered head, and the scanty shawl snatched from somewhere when she was driven into the cold. On the steps of the house she looked up to explain the truth, that he might know it and express it for her.
‘She came back from the house very early and very upset. I could hardly speak to her. Nothing I said was right. And she did not like it if I did not speak. It was no good to try to do anything. Nothing could have made any difference. Mr Seaton had gone to bed and we were alone. At last she flew into a rage and turned me out of doors. She said it drove her mad to see my face.’ Miss Griffin’s voice did not falter. She had felt to her limit and could not go beyond.
Dudley asked to see Sarah and told her the truth. She heard him in silence, with expressions of shock, eagerness, consternation, delight, and pity succeeding each other on her face. When at last she raised her hands, he knew that his task was done. He saw her hasten into the hall and bring the hands down on Miss Griffin’s shoulders. Her husband rose and put a chair for the guest, keeping his face to the exact expression for the action.
‘You will be safe, my dear; we will see that you are safe,’ said Sarah, showing that Miss Griffin was not the only person in her mind.
Miss Griffin parted from Dudley with eager thanks, and he saw her go in to food and fire with greater eagerness.
He left the house, feeling soothed and saner, and found himself imagining Sarah’s experience, if she had known his own solution for her guest. He went to the inn to get a bed for the night, indifferent to surprise or question, finding a sort of comfort in the familiar welcome. He slept as he had not slept since his brother’s engagement, the sense of suspense and waiting leaving him at last. He found that his mind and emotions were cleared, and that his feeling for Edgar had taken its own place. He had been lost in the tumult of his own life, and the hour passed in another’s had done its work. Edgar stood in his heart above any other. The knowledge brought the relief of simplified emotion, but fed his anger with his brother, and confirmed his resolution to remain out of his life.
He went to Miss Griffin in the morning in almost convalescent calm, prepared to live his life without hope or eagerness. She came into the hall to meet him, wishing to see him without Sarah, as her sympathy with curiosity did not lessen the trial of response.
‘Oh, it was everything to be warm and safe. I shall never forget that waiting in the cold. I don’t know what would have happened if you had not come.’
‘What would you like to do now? And in the future?’
‘I should like to get away from Miss Seaton,’ said Miss Griffin, meeting his eyes in simple acceptance of his knowledge. ‘It seems a dreadful thing to say after all these years, but every year seems to make things worse. I should like to have some peace and some ordinary life like other people, before I get old.’ Her voice broke and her eyes filled, both actions so simple that she did not heed or disguise them. ‘I don’t feel I want to have had nothing: it doesn’t seem right that anyone should go through life like that. You only get your life once. Of course, if people were fond of you, that would be enough; but Miss Seaton seems to hate me now, and I don’t know what to do to make it different. I only want to be peaceful somewhere, and not always driven and afraid, and to be able to do something for someone else sometimes.’ Her eyes went round the hall as if its narrow comfort satisfied her soul.
‘You would like a cottage of your own, and a little income to manage it on, and perhaps a friend to live with you, who needed a home.’
‘Oh, I know two or three people,’ said Miss Griffin, in gladness greater than her surprise. ‘I could have them in turn to make a change for me and for them. Oh I should like it. But I don’t know why you should do as much for me as that.’ Her voice fell more than her face. She depended on Dudley’s powers, and would have liked so much to do this for someone, that she hardly conceived of his not feeling the same.
‘I shall like to do it, and I can do it easily. I shall be the fortunate person. We will arrange for the money to come to you for your life. I shall not be living here, but that will make no difference.’
Miss Griffin hardly heard the last words. She stood with a face of simple joy. She believed that Dudley would not miss the money, would have been surprised by the idea of his doing so, and saw her life open out before her, enclosed, firelit, full of gossip and peace.
‘What will Miss Seaton say?’ she said, in a tone which was nervous, guilty, triumphant, and compassionate. ‘Well, she will soon get used to it and settle with someone else.’ A spasm crossed her face but did not stay. She had been tried to the end of her endurance, and knew that she could not continue to endure. ‘Perhaps you could come and tell Mrs Middleton. Then I need not talk about it, and other people will hear.’
Sarah was startled, incredulous, rejoiced, desirous that Miss Griffin should have enough for her ease, anxious that she should remain a much poorer person than herself, relieved when it was apparent that she would; and betrayed her feelings partially to Dudley and completely to Miss Griffin, without surprising or estranging either. Miss Griffin’s thought followed hers. She did not want a whit more than she needed, felt that the money would have more significance if every coin had its use, looked for the pleasures of contrivance, and allowed for a touch of laxness in herself, which Matty had combatted with bitterness, with an open self-knowledge which to Sarah was sensible, and to Dudley comic and touching. She did not stress her gratitude, almost betrayed a faint sense of envy of anyone who could give so much without sacrifice. If she had not forgotten the offer of marriage, she behaved as if she had, and he saw that in effect they would both forget it, that she saw it simply as an impulsive offer of rescue. If she divined that it had some root in his own life, she saw the life as too far removed from her own to be approached.
Dudley left her with the natural sense of elation, and as it fell away, walked on with the single intention of going further from his brother, thinking and caring for nothing beyond.