When I look at those torn fragments now, I think how excruciating must
have been the tension that made her do a thing so pointless and silly. I
oughtn't of course to have shown her the letter at all. It merely
infuriated her; she didn't and couldn't see in it what I have seen.
I think I never realized fully before then what a difference the years
had made in her, and how changed she was from those early days when she
had been the charming and immensely popular girl-wife of the successful
careerist. She was still good-looking, but there was a growing
bitterness in her that was killing the charm, as her altered habits had
already killed the popularity. People had admired her in a vague sort of
way for sticking to her husband, and then after a time they had
forgotten her. She never troubled about her old friends, and when she
met them she gave (as she gave me) an impression of grim implacability.
Implacable she was that night when she asked me what was going to happen
to Terry. "When he learns how he's been duped and defrauded, how will he
stand it? And what can he do? He won't win the action against Karelsky
(Geoffrey's been frank enough to tell me that)--the action's merely to
give Geoffrey a chance of amusing himself. After Terry's served his
purpose in contributing to that noble end, what on earth is to happen to
him?"
Implacable....
I said quietly: "One thing at a time. It's no use looking so far
ahead.... June's telling him to-day."
"So I gathered."
"She's discussed it with you, no doubt?"
"She discusses nothing with me. She prefers her father as a confidant."
Implacable again....
"Well, anyhow, we can only wait."
"_Wait_? We've waited long enough.... Seven years--for the inevitable to
happen.... I'm tired."
"Of waiting?"
"Of everything."
And that, I saw at once, was the look in her face that no younger woman
could easily have had--that look of being tired of everything.
The anger that had made her tear up Severn's letter had spent itself,
and for over an hour we talked together very quietly about Terry and
what might happen. She, like June, was fearful that the blow would be
too much for him. I tried to reassure her by saying that lately there
had been distinct signs of the beginnings of recovery, but that seemed
to make her more apprehensive than ever. "To hit a man when he's down
isn't as bad as to hit him when he's just coming up," she said. And then
there was the strain of the fighting campaign that Geoffrey was planning
for him--how would he stand that?
How _would_ he? I wondered myself. I wondered how soon I should hear the
result of June's momentous interview, and what degree of catastrophe
there would be to learn.... And then, at the moment of deepest gloom,
there came a sharp knock on my outer door. I went, and found one of the
End House chauffeurs with a letter in his hand. I thought immediately of
Severn--that the letter was some urgent summons from him, either to me
or to Helen. Yet he would have telephoned if anything had gone seriously
amiss. A dozen vague alternative conjectures suggested themselves; and
all before the man said: "From Miss June, sir. She told me to bring it
to you."
"Miss June? I thought she was at Hindhead?"
"So she is, sir. I drove her down this morning, and she sent me back
this evening with the car and this letter."
"She's not coming back herself, then?"
"Not to-night, at any rate, sir. She's staying at the hotel."
"I see...."
But I didn't see. I stood under the light in my small lobby and tore
open the envelope. The letter was pencilled and very short. Just this:
"DEAR HILTON,--The most extraordinary thing has happened, and I want you
to get down here to-morrow morning if you possibly can. I'll meet the
10.15 at Haslemere. I don't think it's any use my trying to write any
details, but I'll tell you this much to reassure you--it's good news. At
least _I_ think it is. Do come to-morrow.
"JUNE."
Helen entered from my sitting-room, and before I had time to think, I
said: "It's from June."
"June?" she echoed; and then, with what may or may not have been
sarcasm, added: "If it isn't _too_ private, may I see it?"
I gave it to her, and just for a moment while she was reading I wondered
if she were going to treat it as she had done Severn's. But at last she
handed it back to me, saying sharply: "It tells us nothing."
"Most likely whatever has happened is too complicated to write down," I
answered. "Anyhow, June says it's _good_ news."
"She says _she_ thinks it's good news."
"Which you fear may not be quite the same thing?"
"_Fear_?" There was fear in her voice. "I think I fear everything."
"Even after June's reassurance?"
"June? June doesn't understand--doesn't understand _anything_ in this
business. She _couldn't_."
"Why not?"
"Because, for one thing, she's only a child, despite her adult ways of
managing things. She hasn't the faintest idea of what sort of a man
Terry is--oh, it's absurd--_too_ absurd...." She broke off suddenly and
added, after a pause: "You'll go to-morrow, of course?"
"Most likely."
She shrugged her shoulders almost contemptuously, and then decided to
return to the End House in the car that the chauffeur had driven up. I
wasn't altogether sorry; somehow she was just beginning to get on my
nerves.... On the pavement, as I saw her into the car, she said,
finally: "I'm glad you'll go to-morrow. Then you'll find things out for
yourself. June's too young--too unsophisticated. She means well, but she
_can't_ know--she _can't_ understand--she must be making terrible
blunders about him all the time. It was all right her teaching him
tennis--she can do that well enough ... but now...."
The chauffeur had not heard us talking, and drove away in the middle of
that sentence. I have often wondered how, if at all, she had been going
to finish it.