Six tortured days she waited, and then the response came. Theodora ran
in terror to Judith, her black eyes wide, her cheeks ashen.
“What is it, precious? Don’t stand there shaking like that.”
“It’s my mamma, and she’s--I think she’s gone crazy.”
“Because of something--a letter that came a few minutes ago?” She had
the child in her arms, soothing her with gentle caresses.
“Oh, Sister Judith, what could my uncle write that would make anyone as
furious as that? Last night she couldn’t sleep--because she said our
whole life depended on the letter she was looking for. She made me come
and get in bed with her, and she told me about Bromfield till I fell
asleep in her arms.”
“And your uncle refused to let her have the old home?”
“I don’t know. I was up on the third floor with Drusilla, and all at
once I knew that I was needed down stairs. When I was half way down
the hall--there stood my mamma like a statue. She didn’t see me, any
more than if I’d been a spook without any body. And all at once she
began running back and forth and tearing the letter to bits. And then
she threw them on the floor and stamped on them. She didn’t speak one
single word. That was the awful part--to be as mad as that, and take it
out in just jumping up and down!”
“Stay here, dearie. Or, no--” after a moment’s thought--“I want you
to go and spend the day with Eileen. Don’t tell her about the letter.
Dutton can drive you over in the car. You won’t need a hat.”
V
Judith surmised that Lavinia would not miss the child. For an hour
there was no sign of life in the big house. Then the widow emerged
clad in all her weeds. From the florist’s shop, at the corner, she
returned with a great cornucopia. It was evident that her destination
was the cemetery, and that she intended to walk. For Lavinia Trench, on
a steamy August day, such a walk was nothing short of a penance.
Noon went by ... one, two o’clock ... and she came staggering up the
steps, and into the cool living-room of Judith Trench’s home. Without
a word she sank into the nearest chair and drew aside the crêpe veil,
revealing a countenance from which every vestige of youth had been
erased. With the toe of her small shoe she began to trace the winding
pattern of the Oriental rug, her lips set hard together.
“Take off your hat, mother. You don’t want that hot veil around your
neck.”
“Yes, I’ll take it off. I don’t intend ever to wear the thing again. If
it isn’t in your heart--crêpe veils and flowers on graves won’t put it
there. Oh, my God in heaven, why did David have to die--at such a time?
What right had he to die--and expose me to such an insult?”
She had hurled the mourning hat from her, and sat staring at her moist
shaking hands. Then came the reaction, a flood of colour, not scarlet
but dull raspberry, that spread over neck, cheek and brow. Stiffening
in her chair, she cried:
“It was you who did it, Judith Ascott, every bit of it.”
“I did what?” Judith’s eyes blazed with sudden anger. No, she would
no longer palliate ... spare this woman, who had always contrived to
shift responsibility to shoulders less blameworthy than her own, who
had taken the best she could snatch from life, giving not even decent
gratitude in return.
“You said that Sydney married Eileen and made her happy, because she
didn’t resist the temptation to do wrong.”
“Oh, how monstrous!”
“Well, I hope you aren’t going to deny that you told me, point-blank,
that nothing but a broken axle prevented you from being untrue to your
husband. Was it my fault that the axle didn’t break for me?” She talked
wildly, her thin neck drawn and throbbing.
“I blundered horribly when I said those things to you. I thought you
were a woman who could handle an abstract idea. I didn’t know that
everything I said must necessarily have a personal application. If I
had understood why you were unhappy ... if you had told me the truth,
instead of leaving me to guess it, after the mischief was done--”
“I ought to have told you--told such a thing to a stranger ... when I
never more than half admitted it to myself?”
“No, I am sure you couldn’t have told me. It is just the awful
fatality, that I should have put weapons into your hand that would
wound you--the very knives that removed the false growth from Eileen’s
spirit.”
“Yes, and if the cancer is deep inside--if it grows out of your heart
... the more you cut it away, the stronger it grows. God knows, I tried
to tear it out by the roots. I tried three times to hate--”