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twg_000000045200 | back to London. He misses the Mitchells. I suppose it's the Mitchells.' Edith smiled and looked pleased. 'He asked me not to come here much.' 'Ah! But he wouldn't want you to go anywhere. That is so like Aylmer. He's not jealous; of course. How could he be? It's only a little exclusiveness.... And how delightfully rare that is, Edith | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045201 | dear. I admire him for it. Most people now seem to treasure anything they value in proportion to the extent that it's followed about and surrounded by the vulgar public. I sympathise with that feeling of wishing to keep--anything of that sort--to oneself.' 'You are more secretive than jealous, yourself. But I have very much the same feeling,' Edith said. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045202 | 'Many women I know think the ideal of happiness is to be in love with a great man, or to be the wife of a great public success; to share his triumph! They forget you share the man as well!' 'I suppose the idea is that, after the publicity and the acclamation and the fame and the public glory and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045203 | the shouting, you take the person home, and feel he is only yours, really.' 'But, can a famous person be only yours? No. I shouldn't like it. It isn't that I don't _like_ cleverness and brilliance, but I don't care for the public glory.' 'I see; you don't mind how great a genius he is, as long as he isn't | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045204 | appreciated,' replied Vincy. 'Well, then, in heaven's name let us stick to our obscurities!' The Agonies of Aylmer In the fresh cheerfulness of the early morning, after sleep, with the hot June sun shining in at the window, Aylmer used to think he was better. He would read his letters and papers, dress slowly, look out of the window at | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045205 | the crowds on the pavement--he had come back to Paris--feel the infectious cheeriness and sense of adventure of the city; then he would say to himself that his trip had been successful. He _was_ better. When he went out his heart began to sink a little already, but he fought it off; there would be a glimpse of an English | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045206 | face flashing past in a carriage--he thought of Edith, but he put it aside. Then came lunch. For some reason, immediately after lunch his malady--for, of course, such love is a malady--incongruously attacked him in an acute form. 'Why after lunch?' he asked himself. Could it be that only when he was absolutely rested, before he had had any sort | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045207 | of fatigue, that the deceptive improvement would show itself? He felt a wondering humiliation at his own narrow grief. However, this was the hour that it recurred; he didn't know why. He had tried all sorts of physical cures--for there is no disguising the fact that such suffering is physical, and so why should the cure not be, also? He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045208 | had tried wine, no wine, exercise, distraction, everything--and especially a constant change of scene. This last was the worst of all. He felt so exiled in Sicily, and in Spain--so terribly far away--it was unbearable. He was happier directly he got to Paris, because he seemed more in touch with England and her. Yes; the pain had begun again.... Aylmer | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045209 | went and sat alone outside the caf. It was not his nature to dwell on his own sensations. He would diagnose them quickly and acutely, and then throw them aside. He was quickly bored with himself; he was no egotist. But today, he thought, he _would_ analyse his state, to see what could be done. Six weeks! He had not | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045210 | seen her for six weeks. The longing was no better. The pain seemed to begin at his throat, pressing down gradually on the chest It was that feeling of oppression, he supposed, that makes one sigh; as though there were a weight on the heart. And certain little memories made it acute; sudden flashing vivid recollection of that last drive | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045211 | was like a sharp jagged tear. Had they ever been on nearer terms, and had she treated him badly, it would not have caused this slow and insidious suffering. He was a man of spirit; he was proud and energetic; he would have thrown it off. If he could have been angry with her, or despised her, he could have | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045212 | cured himself in time. Instead of that, all the recollections were of an almost sickening sweetness; particularly that kiss on the day he went to see her. And the other, the _second_, was also the last; so it had a greater bitterness. 'Rapture sharper than a sword, Joy like o sudden spear.' These words, casually read somewhere, came back to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045213 | him whenever he remembered her! Aylmer had read, heard of these obsessions, but never believed in them. It was folly, madness! He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off. He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045214 | with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and was at the embassy here, a young attach. He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking about his chief. Aylmer got home at about half-past six to dress for dinner. Then the torture began again. It was always worse towards | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045215 | evening--an agony of longing, regret, fury, vague jealousy and desire. He stood and looked out of the window again at the crowd, hurrying along now to their pleasures or their happy homes. So many people in the world, like stars in the sky--why want the one star only? Why cry for the moon? He had no photograph of her, but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045216 | he still thought she was like his mother's miniature, and often looked at it. He wished he wasn't going to dine with that young man tonight. Aylmer was the most genial and sociable of men; he usually disliked being alone; yet just now being with people bored him; it seemed an interruption. He was going through a crisis. Yes; he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045217 | could not stand anyone this evening. He rang the bell and sent a _petit bleu_ to say he was prevented from dining with his friend. What a relief when he had sent this--now he could think of her alone in peace.... She had never asked him to go away. It was his own idea. He had come away to get | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045218 | over it. Well, he hadn't got over it. He was worse. But it wasn't because he didn't see her; no, he didn't deceive himself. The more he saw of her the worse he would be. Not one man in a thousand was capable of feeling so intensely and deeply as Aylmer felt, and never in his life before had he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045219 | felt anything like it. And now it came on again with the ebb and flow of passion, like an illness. Why was he so miserable--why would nothing else do? He suddenly remembered with a smile that when he was five years old he had adored a certain nurse, and for some reason or other his mother sent her away. He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045220 | had cried and cried for her to come back. He remembered even now how people had said: 'Oh, the child will soon forget.' But he wore out their patience; he cried himself to sleep every night. And his perseverance had at last been rewarded. After six weeks the nurse came back. His mother sent for her in despair at the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045221 | boy's misery. How well he remembered that evening and her plain brown face, with the twinkling eyes. How he kissed his mother, and thanked her! The nurse stayed till he went to school and then he soon forgot all about her. Perhaps it was in his nature at rare intervals to want one particular person so terribly, to pine and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045222 | die for someone! That was a recollection of babyhood, and yet he remembered even now that obstinate, aching longing.... He suddenly felt angry, furious. What was Edith doing now? Saying good-night to Archie and Dilly? They certainly did look, as she had said, heavenly angels in their night attire (he had been privileged to see them). Then she was dressing | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045223 | for dinner and going out with Bruce. Good heavens! what noble action had Bruce ever done for _him_ that he should go away? Why make such a sacrifice--for Bruce? Perhaps, sometimes, she really missed him a little. They had had great fun together; she looked upon him as a friend; not only that, but he knew that he amused her, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045224 | that she liked him, thought him clever, and--admired him even. But that was all. Yet she _could_ have cared for him. He knew that. And not only in one way, but in every way. They could have been comrades interested in the same things; they had the same sense of humour, much the same point of view. She would have | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045225 | made him, probably, self-restrained and patient as she was, in certain things. But, in others, wouldn't he have fired her with his own ideas and feelings, and violent passions and enthusiasms! She was to be always with Bruce! That was to be her life!--Bruce, who was almost indescribable because he was neither bad, nor stupid, nor bad-looking. He had only | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045226 | one fault. _'Il n'a qu'un dfaut--il est impossible,'_ said Aylmer aloud to himself. He took up a book--of course one of _her_ books, something she had lent him. * * * * * Now it was time to go out again--to dinner. He couldn't; it was too much effort. Tonight he would give way, and suffer grief and desire and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045227 | longing like a physical pain. He hadn't heard from her lately. Suppose she should be ill? Suppose she was forgetting him entirely? Soon they would be going away to some summer place with the children. He stamped his foot like an angry child as he imagined her in her thin summer clothes. How people would admire her! How young she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045228 | would look! Why couldn't he find some fault with her?--imagine her cold, priggish, dull, too cautious. But he could only think of her as lovely, as beyond expression attractive, drawing him like a magnet, as marvellously kind, gentle, graceful, and clever. He was obliged to use the stupid word clever, as there was no other. He suddenly remembered her teeth | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045229 | when she smiled, and a certain slight wave in her thick hair that was a natural one. It is really barely decent to write about poor Aylmer as he is alone, suffering, thinking himself unwatched. He suddenly threw himself on his bed and gave way to a crisis of despair. * * * * * About an hour later, when | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045230 | the pain had somehow become stupefied, he lit a cigarette, ashamed of his emotion even to himself, and rang. The servant brought him a letter--the English post. He had thought so much of her, felt her so deeply the last few days that he fancied it must somehow have reached her. He read: 'My Dear Aylmer, 'I'm glad you are | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045231 | in Paris; it seems nearer home. Last night I went to the Mitchells' and Mr Mitchell disguised himself as a Russian Count. Nobody worried about it, and then he went and undisguised himself again. But Lady Hartland worried about it, and as she didn't know the Mitchells before, when he was introduced to her properly she begged him to give | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045232 | her the address of that charming Russian. And Vincy was there, and darling Vincy told me you'd written him a letter saying you weren't so very happy. And oh, Aylmer, I don't see the point of your waiting till September to come back. Why don't you come _now_? 'We're going away for Archie's holidays. Come back and see us and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045233 | take Freddie with us somewhere in England. You told me to ask you when I wanted you--ask you anything I wanted. Well, I want to see you. I miss you too much. You arrived in Paris last night. Let me knew when you can come. I want you. Edith.' The bell was rung violently. Orders were given, arrangements made, packing | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045234 | was done. Aylmer was suddenly quite well, quite happy. In a few hours he was in the midnight express due to arrive in London at six in the morning--happy beyond expression. By ten o'clock in the morning he would hear her voice on the telephone. He met a poor man just outside the hotel selling matches, in rags. Aylmer gave | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045235 | him three hundred francs. He pretended to himself that he didn't want any more French money. He felt he wanted someone else to be happy too. A Contretemps Edith did not know, herself, what had induced her to write that letter to Paris. Some gradual obscure influence, in an impulsive moment of weakness, a conventional dread of Paris for one's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045236 | idol. Then, what Vincy told her had convinced her Aylmer was unhappy. She thought that surely there might be some compromise; that matters could be adjusted. Couldn't they go on seeing each other just as friends? Surely both would be happier than separated? For, yes--there was no doubt she missed him, and longed to see him. Is there any woman | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045237 | in the world on whom a sincere declaration from a charming, interesting person doesn't make an impression, and particularly if that person goes away practically the next day, leaving a blank? Edith had a high opinion of her own strength of will. When she appeared weak it was on some subject about which she was indifferent. She took a great | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045238 | pride in her own self-poise; her self-control, which was neither coldness nor density. She had made up her mind to bear always with the little irritations Bruce caused her; to guide him in the right direction; keep her influence with him in order to be able to arrange everything about the children just as she wished. The children were a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045239 | deep and intense preoccupation. To say she adored them is insufficient. Archie she regarded almost as her greatest friend, Dilly as a pet; for both she had the strongest feeling that a mother could have. And yet the fact remained that they did not nearly fill her life. With Edith's intellect and temperament they could only fill a part. Bending | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045240 | down to a lower stature of intelligence all day long would make one's head ache; standing on tiptoe and stretching up would do the same; one needs a contemporary and a comrade. Perhaps till Edith met Aylmer she had not quite realised what such real comradeship might mean, coupled with another feeling--not the intellectual sympathy she had for Vincy, but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045241 | something quite different. When she recollected their last drive her heart beat quickly, and the little memories of the few weeks of their friend-ship gave her unwonted moments of sentiment. Above all, it was a real, solid happiness--an uplifting pleasure, to believe he was utterly devoted to her. And so, in a moment of depression, a feeling of the sense | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045242 | of the futility of her life, she had, perhaps a little wantonly, written to ask him to come back. It is human to play with what one loves. She thought she had a soft, tender admiration for him, that he had a charm for her; that she admired him. But she had not the slightest idea that on her side | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045243 | there was anything that could disturb her in any way. And so that his sentiment, which she had found to be rather infectious, should never carry her away, she meant only to see him now and then; to meet again and be friends. As soon as she had written the letter and sent it she felt again a cheerful excitement. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045244 | She felt sure he would come in a day or two. Aylmer arrived, as I have said, eight hours after he received the letter. His first intention was to ring her up, or to speak to Bruce on the telephone. But it so happened that it was engaged. This decided him to have a short rest, and then go and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045245 | surprise her with a visit. He thought he would have lunch at one (he knew she always lunched with the children at this hour), and would call on her unexpectedly at two, before she would have time to go out. They might have a long talk; he would give her the books and things he had bought for her, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045246 | he would have the pleasure of surprising her and seeing on her face that first look that no-one can disguise, the look of real welcome. Merely to be back in the same town made him nearly wild with joy. How jolly London looked at the beginning of July! So gay, so full of life. And then he read a letter | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045247 | in a writing he didn't know; it was from Mavis Argles, the friend of Vincy--the young art-student: Vincy had given her his address some time ago--asking him for some special privilege which he possessed, to see some of the Chinese pictures in the British Museum. He was to oblige her with a letter to the museum. She would call for | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045248 | it. Vincy was away, and evidently she had by accident chosen the day of Aylmer's return without knowing anything of his absence. She had never seen him in her life. Aylmer was wandering about the half-dismantled house _dsoeuvr_, with nothing to do, restlessly counting the minutes till two in the afternoon. He remembered the very little that Vincy had told | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045249 | him of Mavis; how proud she was and how hard up. He saw her through the window. She looked pale and rather shabby. He told the servant to show her in. 'I've just this moment got your letter, Miss Argles. But, of course, I'm only too delighted.' 'Thank you. Mr Vincy said you'd give me the letter.' The girl sat | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045250 | down stiffly on the edge of a chair. Vincy had said she was pretty. Aylmer could not see it. But he felt brimming over with sympathy and kindness for her--for everyone, in fact. She wore a thin light grey cotton dress, and a small grey hat; her hair looked rich, red, and fluffy as ever; her face white and rather | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045251 | thin. She looked about seventeen. When she smiled she was pretty; she had a Rossetti mouth; that must have been what Vincy admired. Aylmer had no idea that Vincy did more than admire her very mildly. 'Won't you let me take you there?' suggested Aylmer suddenly. He had nothing on earth to do, and thought it would fill up the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045252 | time. 'Yes! I'll drive you there and show you the pictures. And then, wouldn't you come and have lunch? I've got an appointment at two.' She firmly declined lunch, but consented that he should drive her, and they went. Aylmer talked with the eagerness produced by his restless excitement and she listened with interest, somewhat fascinated, as people always were, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045253 | with his warmth and vitality. As they were driving along Oxford Street Edith, walking with Archie, saw them clearly. She had been taking him on some mission of clothes. (For the children only she went into shops.) He was talking with such animation that he did not see her, to a pale young girl with bright red hair. Edith knew | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045254 | the girl by sight, knew perfectly well that she was Vincy's friend--there was a photograph of her at his rooms. Aylmer did not see her. After a start she kept it to herself. She walked a few steps, then got into a cab. She felt ill. So Aylmer had never got her letter? He had been in London without telling | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045255 | her. He had forgotten her. Perhaps he was deceiving her? And he was making love obviously to that sickening, irritating red-haired fool (so Edith thought of her), Vincy's silly, affected art-student. When Edith went home she had a bad quarter of an hour. She never even asked herself what right she had to mind so much; she only knew it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045256 | hurt. A messenger boy at once, of course. 'Dear Mr Ross, I saw you this morning. I wrote you a line to Paris, not knowing you had returned. When you get the note forwarded, will you do me the little favour to tear it up unopened? I'm sure you will do this to please me. 'We are going away in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045257 | a day or two, but I don't know where. Please don't trouble to come and see me. 'Good-bye. 'EDITH OTTLEY.' Aylmer left Miss Argles at the British Museum. When he went back, he found this letter. An Extraordinary Afternoon Aylmer guessed at once she had seen him driving. Being a man of sense, and not an impossible hero in a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045258 | feuilleton, instead of going away again and leaving the misunderstanding to ripen, he went to the telephone, endeavoured to get on, and to explain, in few words, what had obviously happened. To follow the explanation by an immediate visit was his plan. Though, of course, slightly irritated that she had seen him under circumstances conveying a false impression, on the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045259 | other hand he was delighted at the pique her letter showed, especially coming immediately after the almost tender letter in Paris. He rang and rang (and used language), and after much difficulty getting an answer he asked, '_Why he could not get on_' a pathetic question asked plaintively by many people (not only on the telephone). 'The line is out | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045260 | of order.' In about twenty minutes he was at her door. The lift seemed to him preternaturally slow. 'Mrs Ottley?' 'Mrs Ottley is not at home, sir.' At his blank expression the servant, who knew him, and of course liked him, as they always did, offered the further information that Mrs Ottley had gone out for the whole afternoon. 'Are | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045261 | the children at home, or out with Miss Townsend?' 'The children are out, sir, but not with Miss Townsend. They are spending the day with their grandmother.' 'Oh! Do you happen to know if Mr and Mrs Ottley will be at home to dinner?' 'I've heard nothing to the contrary, sir.' 'May I come in and write a note?' He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045262 | went into the little drawing-room. It was intensely associated with her. He felt a little mu.... There was the writing-table, there the bookcase, the few chairs, the grey walls; some pale roses fading in a pewter vase.... The restfulness of the surroundings filled him, and feeling happier he wrote on the grey notepaper: 'DEAR MRS OTTLEY, I arrived early this | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045263 | morning. I started, in fact, from Paris immediately after receiving a few lines you very kindly sent me there. I'm so disappointed not to see you. Unless I hear to the contrary--and even if I do, I think!--I propose to come round this evening about nine, and tell you and Bruce all about my travels. 'Excuse my country manners in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045264 | thus inviting myself. But I know you will say no if you don't want me. And in that case I shall have to come another time, very soon, instead, as I really must see you and show you something I've got for Archie. Yours always--' He paused, and then added: 'Sincerely, 'AYLMER ROSS' He went to his club, there to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045265 | try and pass the time until the evening. He meant to go in the evening, even if she put him off again; and, if they were out, to wait until they returned, pretending he had not heard from her again. He was no better. He had been away six weeks and was rather more in love than ever. He would | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045266 | only see her--she _did_ want to see him before they all separated for the summer! He could not think further than of the immediate future; he would see her; they could make plans afterwards. Of course, her letter was simply pique! She had given herself away--twice--once in the angry letter, also in the previous one to Paris. Where was she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045267 | now? What did it mean? Why did she go out for the whole afternoon? Where was she? * * * * * After Edith had written and sent her letter to Aylmer in the morning, Mrs Ottley the elder came to fetch the children to dine, and Edith told Miss Townsend to go for the afternoon. She was glad she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045268 | would be absolutely alone. 'Aren't you very well, dear Mrs Ottley?' asked this young lady, in her sweet, sympathetic way. Edith was fond of her, and, by implication only, occasionally confided in her on other subjects than the children. Today, however, Edith answered that she was _very_ well _indeed_, but was going to see about things before they went away. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045269 | 'I don't know how we shall manage without you for the holidays, Miss Townsend. I think you had better come with us for the first fortnight, if you don't mind much.' Miss Townsend said she would do whatever Edith liked. She could easily arrange to go with them at once. This was a relief, for just at this moment Edith | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045270 | felt as if even the children would be a burden. Sweet, gentle Miss Townsend went away. She was dressed rather like herself, Edith observed; she imitated Edith. She had the soft, graceful manner and sweet voice of her employer. She was slim and had a pretty figure, but was entirely without Edith's charm or beauty. Vaguely Edith wondered if she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045271 | would ever have a love affair, ever marry. She hoped so, but (selfishly) not till Archie went to Eton. Then she found herself looking at her lonely lunch; she tried to eat, gave it up, asked for a cup of tea. At last, she could bear the flat no longer. It was a glorious day, very hot, Edith felt peculiar. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045272 | She thought that if she spent all the afternoon out and alone, it would comfort her, and she would think it out. Trees and sky and sun had always a soothing effect on her. She went out, walked a little, felt worried by the crowd of shoppers swarming to Sloane Street and the Brompton Road, got into a taxi and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045273 | drove to the gate of Kensington Gardens, opposite Kensington Gore. Here she soon found a seat. At this time of the day the gardens were rather unoccupied, and in the burning July afternoon she felt almost as if in the country. She took off her gloves--a gesture habitual with her whenever possible. She looked utterly restful. She had nothing in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045274 | her hands, for she never carried either a parasol or a bag, nor even in winter a muff or in the evening a fan. All these little accessories seemed unnecessary to her. She liked to simplify. She hated fuss, anything worrying, agitating. ... And now she felt deeply miserable, perturbed and agitated. What a punishment for giving way to that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045275 | half-coquettish, half self-indulgent impulse that had made her write to Paris! She had begged him to come back; while, really, he was here, and had not even let her know. She had never liked what she had heard of Mavis Argles, but had vaguely pitied her, wondering what Vincy saw in her, and wishing to believe the best. Now, she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045276 | assumed the worst! As soon as Vincy had gone out of town--he was staying in Surrey with some of his relatives--she, the minx, began flirting or carrying on with Aylmer. How far had it gone? she wondered jealously. She did not believe Aylmer's love-making to be harmless. He was so easily carried away. His feelings were impulsive. Yet it was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045277 | only a very short time since Vincy had told her of Aylmer's miserable letter. Edith was not interested in herself, and seldom thought much of her own feelings, but she hated self-deception; and now she faced facts. She adored Aylmer! It had been purely jealousy that made her write to Paris so touchingly, asking him to come back--vague fears that, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045278 | if he were so depressed in Spain, perhaps he might try by amusements to forget her in Paris. He had once said to her that, of all places, he thought Paris the least attractive for a romance, because it was all so obvious, so prepared, so professional. He liked the unexpected, the veiled and somewhat more hypocritical atmosphere, and in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045279 | the fogs of London, he had said, were more romantic mysteries than in any other city. Still, she had feared. And besides she longed to see him. So she had unbent and thought herself soon after somewhat reckless; it was a little wanton and unfair to bring him back. But she was not a saint; she was a woman; and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045280 | sometimes Bruce was trying.... Edith belonged to the superior class of human being whom jealousy chills and cures, and does not stimulate to further efforts. It was not in her to go in for competition. The moment she believed someone else took her place she relaxed her hold. This is the finer temperament, but it suffers most. She would not | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045281 | try to take Aylmer away. Let him remain with his red-haired Miss Argles! He might even marry her. He deserved it. She meant to tell Vincy, of course. Poor Vincy, _he_ didn't know of the treachery. Now she must devote herself to the children, and be good and kind to Bruce. At least, Bruce was _true_ to her in his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045282 | way. He had been in love when they married, but Edith shrewdly suspected he was not capable of very much more than a weak rather fatuous sentiment for any woman. And anyone but herself would have lost him many years ago, would very likely have given him up. But she had kept it all together, had really helped him, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045283 | was touched when she remembered that jealous scene he made about the letter. The letter she wouldn't at first let him see. Poor Bruce! Well, they were linked together. There were Archie, the angel, and Dilly, the pet.... She was twenty-eight and Aylmer forty. He ought not to hold so strong a position in her mind. But he did. Yes, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045284 | she was in love with him in a way--it was a mania, an obsession. But she would now soon wrestle with it and conquer it. The great charm had been his exclusive devotion--but also his appearance, his figure, his voice. He looked sunburnt and handsome. He was laughing as he talked to the miserable creature (so Edith called her in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045285 | her own mind). Then Edith had a reaction. She would cure herself today! No more flirtation, no more amiti amoureuse. They were going away. The children, darlings, how they loved her! And Bruce. She was reminding herself she must be gentle, good, to Bruce. He had at least never deceived her! She got up and walked on and on. It | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045286 | was about five o'clock now. As she walked, she thought how fortunate she was in Miss Townsend; what a nice girl she was, what a good friend to her and the children. She had a sort of intuition that made her always have the right word, the right manner. She had seemed a little odd lately, but she was quite | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045287 | pleased to come with them to the country. What made her think of Miss Townsend? Some way off was a girl, with her back to Edith, walking with a man. Her figure was like Miss Townsend's, and she wore a dress like the one copied from Edith's. Edith walked more quickly, it was the retired part of the gardens on | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045288 | the way towards the Bayswater Road. The two figures turned down a flowery path.... It was Miss Townsend! She had turned her face. Edith was surprised, was interested, and walked on a few steps. She had not seen the man clearly. Then they both sat down on a seat. He took her hand. She left it in his. There was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045289 | something familiar in his figure and clothes, and Edith saw his face. Yes, it was Bruce. Edith turned round and went home. Journeys End So that was how Bruce behaved to her! The deceit of both of them hurt her immensely. But she pulled herself together. It was a case for action. She felt a bitter, amused contempt, but she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045290 | felt it half-urgent _not_ to do anything that would lead to a life of miserable bickering and mutual harm. It must be stopped. And without making Bruce hate her. She wrote the second note of this strange day and sent it by a messenger. Giving no reason of any kind, she told the governess that she had decided the children's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045291 | holidays should begin from that day, and that she was unexpectedly going away with them almost immediately, and she added that she would not require Miss Townsend any more. She enclosed a cheque, and said she would send on some books and small possessions that Miss Townsend had kept there. This was sent by a messenger to Miss Townsend's home | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045292 | near Westbourne Grove. She would find it on her return from her walk! And now Edith read Aylmer's note--it was so real, so sincere, she began to disbelieve her eyes this morning. It gave her more courage; she wanted to be absolutely calm, and looking her very best, for Bruce's entrance. He came in with his key. He avoided her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045293 | eye a little--looked rather sheepish, she thought. It was about seven. 'Hallo! Aren't the children in yet? Far too late for them to be out.' 'Nurse fetched Dilly. She has gone to bed. Archie is coming presently; mother will send him all right.' 'How are you, Edith, old girl?' 'I'm quite well, Bruce.' 'I have a sort of idea, as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045294 | you know,' he said, growing more at ease, 'that we shall rather miss--a--Miss Townsend, when we first go away. What do you think of taking her for part of the time?' 'Dinner's ready,' announced Edith, and they dined. Towards the end of dinner he was about to make the suggestion again, when Edith said in clear, calm but decided tones: | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045295 | 'Bruce, I am not going to take Miss Townsend away with us. She is not coming any more.' 'Not--Why? What the devil's the idea of this new scheme? What's the matter with Miss Townsend?' 'Bruce,' answered Edith, 'I prefer not to go into the question, and later you will be glad I did not. I've decided that Miss Townsend is | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045296 | not to come any more at all. I've written to tell her so. I'll look after the children with nurse until we come back.... It's all settled.' Bruce was silent. 'Well upon my word!' he exclaimed, looking at her uneasily. 'Have it your own way, of course--but upon my word! Why?' 'Do you really want me to tell you exactly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045297 | why? I would so much prefer not.' 'Oh, all right, Edith dear; after all--hang it all--you're the children's mother--it's for you to settle.... No, I don't want to know anything. Have it as you wish.' 'Then we won't discuss it again. Shall we?' 'All right.' He was looking really rather shamefaced, and she thought she saw a gleam of remorse | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045298 | and also of relief in his eye. She went into the other room. She had not shown him Aylmer's letter. After ten minutes he came in and said: 'Look here, Edith. Make what arrangements you like. _I_ never want to see--Miss Townsend again.' She looked a question. 'And I never shall.' She was really pleased at this, and held out | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045299 | her hand. Bruce had tears in his eyes as he took it. 'Edith, old girl, I think I'll go round to the club for an hour or two.' 'Do. And look here, Bruce, leave it to me to tell the children. They'll forget after the holidays. Archie must not be upset.' 'Whatever you do, Edith, will be--what I mean to | 60 | gutenberg |
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