The Misses Mallett (The Bridge Dividing) Part 35

He blushed with shame, then decided that to-night he could not really care, and signing to Henrietta to follow him, he tiptoed from the hall.

'Did you hear? Did you hear?' he asked her. 'I spoke! I--at a concert!

I've never done that in my life before. I'll never do it again! But, then, it was the first time you'd ever looked at me like that, Henrietta! And, oh Lord, we've forgotten the bag. I dare not go back for it.'

'We'll leave it, then,' she said indifferently. 'I don't want to see it again.'

'But I like it. It's an old friend. I've watched it--' He checked himself. 'I'll go. Wait here.'

'Why aren't we going home by train?' she asked, when he returned.

'The angry man didn't see me,' he said triumphantly. 'Oh, because-- well, you wanted somewhere to cry, didn't you?'

In the closed car she sat, for a time very straight, looking out of the window at the streets and the people, but when they had drawn away from the old city and left its grey stone houses behind and taken to the roads where slowly moving carts were creaking and s.n.a.t.c.hes of talk from slow-tongued country people were heard and lost in the same moment, she sank back. The roads were dark. They were lined by tall, bare trees which seemed to challenge this swift pa.s.sage and then decide to permit what they could not prevent, and for a mile or so the river gleamed darkly like an unsheathed sword in the night.

'We shall soon be there, shan't we?' she asked, in a small voice.

'Yes, pretty soon.'

'I wish we wouldn't. I wish we could go on like this for ever, to the edge of the world and then drop over and forget.'

He sighed. He could not arrange that for her but he told the man to drive more slowly. Against the dark upholstery of the car, her face was like a young moon, wan and too weary for its work. He slipped his arm under her back and drew her to him. Pulling off her hat, she found a place for her head against his shoulder and he shut his eyes. She breathed regularly and lightly, as though she were asleep, but presently she said, 'Charles, I don't mean anything by this, but you are the only friend I have. You won't think I mean anything, will you?'

He shook his head and it came to rest on hers. He, too, wished they might go on like this for ever, to the world's edge.

The car was stopped at a little distance from the house and Henrietta had to rouse herself from the state between waking and sleeping, thought and imagery, in which she had pa.s.sed the journey. The jarring of the brake shocked her into a recognition of facts and the gentle humming of the engine reminded her that life had to go on as before.

The persistent sound, regular, not loud, controlled, was like existence in Nelson Lodge; one wearied of it, yet one would weary more of accidents breaking the healthy beating of the engine: to-night had been one of the accidents and she was terribly tired. No wonder! She had been trying to run away with a man who did not want her, a man who had a lonely, miserable invalid for a wife, the old lover of Aunt Rose. A little blaze of anger flared up at the thought of Rose; nevertheless, she continued her self-accusations. She had been willing to leave her aunts without a word and they had been good to her and one of them was ill, and the very money in her pocket was not her own.

She was shocked by her behaviour. She was like her father, who took what belonged to other people and used it badly.

She sat, flaccid, her hands loose on her lap. She felt incapable of movement, but Charles was speaking to her, telling her to get out and run home quickly. She looked at him. She was holding his friendly hand. What would she have done without him? She saw herself in the train, speeding through the lonely darkness; she saw herself knocking at Mrs. Banks's door, felt herself clasped to the doubtful blackness of that bosom, and she shuddered.

'You must go,' Charles said, but he still held her hand.

He had brought her back to cleanliness and comfort, he had saved her from behaviour of gross ingrat.i.tude, he had been marvellously kind and wise.

'Charles,' she said, 'it's awful.'

'No, it's all right. We've been to a concert.'

'Yes'--her voice sank--'I've kept that promise. But the whole thing-- and Aunt Caroline so ill. She may have died.'

'There hasn't been time,' he said.

'Oh, Charles, it only takes a minute.'

'Well, run home quickly. This bag's a nuisance,' he said, but he looked at it tenderly. How he had dogged that bag! How heavy it had seemed for her! 'Look here, I'll take it home and get it to you to-morrow somehow.'

'I don't want it. I hate it.'

He thought, 'I'll keep it, then,' and aloud he said, 'I'll wrap the things up in a parcel and let you have them. Nothing you don't want me to see, is there?'

'No, nothing.'

'All right. Do get out, dear. No, I shall drive on.'

She lingered on the pavement. She had not said a word of thanks. She jumped on to the step and put her head through the window. 'Thank you, kind Charles,' she said.

'Henrietta,' he began in a loud voice, filling the dark interior with sound, 'Henrietta--'

'What is it?'

'No, no. Nothing.'

'Tell me.'

'No. Not fair,' he said. 'Just weakness. Good night. Be quick.'

She ran along the street and gave the front-door bell a gentle push.

To her relief it was the housemaid and not Susan who opened to her.

Susan would have looked at her severely, but the housemaid had a welcoming smile, an offer of food if Miss Henrietta had not dined.

Henrietta shook her head. She was going to bed at once. She did not want anything to eat. How was Miss Caroline?

'Not so well to-night, Miss Henrietta. The doctor's been again and there's a night-nurse come.'

Henrietta pressed her hands against her heart. Oh, good Charles, wonderful Charles! She did not know how to be grateful enough. She moved meekly, humbly through the hall and up the stairs. All was terribly, portentously still, but in her bedroom there were no signs of the trouble in the house. The fire was lighted, her evening gown had been laid out on the bed, her silk stockings and slippers were in their usual places. n.o.body had suspected, n.o.body had been alarmed; she had stolen back by a miracle into her place.

Yes, Charles Batty was a miracle, there was no other word for him and, by contrast, the image of Francis Sales appeared mean, contemptible.

Why had he failed her? His desertion was a blessing, but it was also a slight and perhaps a tribute to the power of Rose. Yes, that was it.

She set her little teeth. He had stared at Aunt Rose as though he could not look at her enough, not with the starved expression she had first intercepted long ago, but with a look of wonder, almost of awe.

She was nearly middle-aged, yet she could force that from him. Well, she was welcome to anything he could give her, his offerings were no compliment. Henrietta was done with him; she would not think of him again; she had been foolish, she had been wicked, but she was the richer and the wiser for her experience.

She had always been taught that sin brought suffering, yet here she was, warm and comfortable, in possession of a salutary lesson and with the good Charles for a secure friend. It was odd, unnatural, and this variation in her case gave her a pleasant feeling of being a special person for whom the operation of natural laws could be diverted. By the weakness of Francis Sales and the strength of Aunt Rose whom, nevertheless, she could never forgive, she was saved from much unhappiness, and if her mother knew everything in that heaven to which she had surely gone, she must now be weeping tears of thankfulness.

Yet Henrietta's future lay before her rather drearily. She stretched out her arms and legs; she yawned. What was she to do? Being good, as she meant to be, and realizing her sin, as indeed she did, was hardly occupation enough for all her energies.

Her immediate business was to answer a knock at the door. It was Rose who entered. Her natural pallor was overlaid by the whiteness of distress. 'Oh, Henrietta, I am glad you have come in.'

'I've been to a concert with Charles Batty,' Henrietta said quickly.

Rose showed no interest or surprise. 'Caroline is so much worse.'

Henrietta felt a pang at her forgetfulness. 'She is very ill. I was afraid you might not be back in time. She has been asking for you.'

'I've been to Wellsborough, to a concert,' Henrietta insisted. 'Is she as bad as that, Aunt Rose? But she'll get better, won't she?'

'Come with me and say good night to her. 'Rose took Henrietta's hand.

'How warm you are,' she said, in wonder that anything could be less cold than Caroline soon would be.

Henrietta's fingers tightened round the living hand. 'She's not going to die, is she?'