Amy, when she came away from the library, wondered if the inopportune
entry of May and Denis had really spoiled everything. For a few minutes
all had been so well--better than ever before! If the others had not
come in ...? She wondered if May had done it on purpose? Why should she
have come to look for their mother in the study? When was their mother
ever in the study? She had come in to see if she, Amy, were sitting
there with Rusk. That was undoubtedly the true reason. And now she would
go and tell their mother what she had seen, and Mr. Rusk would be sent
away, and everything would be at an end.
She went to the drawing-room and found her sister already there, beside
the piano, sorting some music, songs of Rusk’s. She had not yet told,
then; but it was only because she hadn’t had an opportunity. An intense
nervous irritation possessed Amy, an irritation urging her to any act of
folly that might happen to suggest itself. She flung herself down in an
armchair and took up an illustrated paper over the pages of which she
watched her sister in silence, waiting, longing for her to say
something, no matter what; but May said nothing. She had now begun to
practise an accompaniment, and the more difficult passages she repeated
several times, humming the air as she went along. There was something in
this apparently quite harmless pastime, in the apparently happy manner
of May’s pursuance of it, which Amy felt she would be unable to stand
for very long. She was more certain than ever now that May intended to
tell their mother. It was not that she was really shocked; Amy did not
believe in that; but she would do it, if not to keep Rusk for herself,
at any rate to keep him from her sister. Amy had a sudden inspiration.
It came to her in a flash that she might save the situation. May had
reached the end of one song and was turning over the pages of another,
when all at once these words reached her:
“I may as well tell you, I am engaged to Hubert Rusk.”
As soon as she had spoken her inspiration dropped, went out like a blown
candle-flame. It seemed suddenly idiotic, worse than useless. Yet she
did not draw back; she waited, watching an expression of mortification,
which she was obviously struggling not to show, come into the elder
girl’s face.
“Engaged?” May at last repeated. “What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean what I say,” Amy answered. It had occurred to her that she _was_
engaged to Rusk--even if there should be nothing on his side, her own
troth had been plighted, and perhaps the other would come.
A deep flush had passed over May’s face. She had risen to her feet,
leaving her music open on the piano. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
But she understood only too completely, and her gaze, which had been
fastened on Amy’s, faltered and fell. She turned away and walked to the
door, through which, closing it behind her, she passed without looking
back.
And Amy, left there alone, sat very still. Her face had all at once
grown white and strained, as she remained in the same position before
the closed door, listening with painful intentness as if for some remote
sound beyond it. She knew she had gone too far and she already wondered
where it would end. More and more rapidly, as the minutes passed, her
courage failed her. Yet it had been the only way--the only chance,
though now it seemed so poor a one. She waited for what appeared to be a
long time before she heard a step outside: then her mother hurriedly
entered, looking worried and perplexed.
“What is this May tells me,” she asked at once--“about your being
engaged to Mr. Rusk?”
Amy hesitated, but she could still smile faintly.
“Did she tell you? She is so stupid.”
Mrs. Bracknel stopped short in astonishment. “But she said she had just
come from you, and that you had told her!”
Amy hesitated again. “It is so like her.... I mean, of course, I didn’t
intend her to repeat what I said; but she ran out of the room before I
could explain. I don’t know what is the matter with her. I thought she
would understand; but she is so strange sometimes that you really don’t
know where you are with her.”
Mrs. Bracknel for a moment did not reply. “It is you who are strange,”
she then said slowly. “Is what you told May not true? What has happened?
What is there between you and Mr. Rusk?”
“There is nothing--nothing, I mean, that I can tell you, nothing
definite.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she still kept up her smile.
“Nothing? Yet May says she saw you together--and you.... What have you
been doing? What have you been saying? You are keeping something from
me.... I know you are keeping something from me. Why should you look as
you are looking now if there is nothing, and why should May have come to
me?”
“I don’t know why she went, and I don’t know how I am looking. There
_is_ nothing definite!”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing definite?’ What----”
Her words were suddenly cut short by Amy flinging her arms round her
neck. “Mamma--mamma--I love him,” she cried in a sudden abandon. “I want
to be married to him. I can’t tell you how much I love him. Surely you
might have seen! Promise, promise you will help me. I won’t let you go
till you promise. My life won’t be worth living without him. I will
never care for anybody else. If I don’t get him I know I shall die. It
is this that has been making me ill. You don’t know how ill I have been.
Often I lie awake half the night, and sometimes I think the most
dreadful things--things that would frighten you if you only knew them.”
Mrs. Bracknel tried to draw back. Amy’s words shocked her, but Amy’s
arms held her tightly clasped, so that she could not free herself. “I
don’t understand,” she said helplessly. “I must speak to your father.
You shouldn’t say such things--it isn’t right. What have you been
doing?”
“Oh, but you mustn’t speak to papa,” cried Amy, piteously. “Promise that
you won’t.... Promise--promise.... You must.... Promise you won’t speak
to-night at all events. He might come in at any moment. Promise you
won’t tell him.”
Mrs. Bracknel yielded. She felt distressed and frightened, but it was
not in her to resist her daughter’s appeal. “I don’t suppose it matters
for a few hours,” she said weakly, “but I don’t understand.... I have
never seen anything in Mr. Rusk’s manner to indicate.... When did he
first lead you to think that he cared for you in this way?”
“I don’t know ... this evening....” And suddenly she began to cry. She
buried her head in the cushion and the noise of her sobs became
stifled, but they were still audible, and still her body shook
convulsively. The paroxysm lasted for but two or three minutes, and when
she lifted her head she had regained control of herself; nevertheless it
had been startling, and her mother accompanied her to her own room,
where she left her only when she had promised to go to bed and to sleep.
Mrs. Bracknel was now intensely anxious about her. The flush in the
girl’s face was feverish and unnatural, and there was a brilliant
restless light in her eyes. She was certainly far from well. She
wondered if she ought to tell her husband that night--at once--in spite
of her promise to Amy, and though she was still so uncertain as to how
the situation stood. But she hardly knew what she _could_ tell him; it
was all so very vague, and there might be so much or so little in it. In
the morning they would have to go into everything thoroughly; in the
morning they would get to know clearly just how far things had gone, and
decide what it would be best to do. They would have to settle about Mr.
Rusk; Mr. Rusk would have to be sent away. And things of this kind were
so bad for her husband; one never knew what might happen. He had been
much worse after the trouble about Alfred. Any excitement was so
dangerous to him, and he was so easily excited.