"Il ne suffit pas d'etre logique en ce monde; il faut savoir vivre
avec ceux qui ne le sont pas."--VALTOUR.
In later years Annette remembered little of the days that passed while
Roger was in France. They ought to have been terrible days, days of
suspense and foreboding, but they were not. Her mind was at rest. It had
long oppressed her that her two best friends, Roger and Janey, were in
ignorance of certain facts about her which their friendship for her and
their trust in her gave them a right to know. With a sinking of the
heart, she said to herself, "They know now." But that was easier to bear
than "They ought to know."
If she had hoped for a letter from Roger none came, but I hardly think
she was so foolish as to hope it.
Janey had been to see her, had climbed up to her little attic, and had
stretched out her arms to her. And Annette and she had held each other
closely, and looked into each other's eyes, and kissed each other in
silence. No word passed between them, and then Janey had gone away
again. The remembrance of that wordless embrace lay heavy on Janey's
sore heart. Annette, pallid and worn, had blamed no one, had made no
excuse for herself. How she had misjudged Annette!--she, her friend.
But if Annette felt relief about Roger and Janey, the thought of the
aunts brought a pang with it, especially since Mrs. Stoddart's visit.
They had reached the state of nerves when the sweeps are an event, a
broken window-cord an occasion for fortitude, a patch of damp on the
ceiling a disaster. They would be wounded to the quick in their pride
and in their affection if any scandal attached to her name; for they had
become fond of her since she had devoted herself to them. While she had
been as a young girl a claim on their time and attention they had not
cared much about her, but now she was indispensable to them, and she who
formerly could do nothing right could now hardly do anything wrong. Oh!
why had she concealed anything from them in the first instance? Why had
she allowed kind, clever Mrs. Stoddart to judge for her what was right
when she ought to have followed her own instinct of telling them, before
they had come to lean upon her? "Mrs. Stoddart only thought of me,"
Annette said to herself. "She never considered the aunts at all," which
was about the truth.
Their whole happiness would be destroyed, the even tenor of their lives
broken up. Aunt Maria often talked as if she had plumbed the greatest
depths to which human nature can sink. Aunt Harriet had more than
hinted that many dark and even improper problems had been unravelled in
tears beside her couch. But Annette knew very well that these utterances
were purely academic and had no connection with anything real,
indicating only the anxious desire of middle age, half conscious that it
is in a backwater, to impress on itself and others that--to use its own
pathetic phrase--it is "keeping in touch with life."
The aunts must leave Riff, and quickly. Mrs. Stoddart was right. Annette
realized that their lives could be reconstructed like other mechanisms:
taken down like an iron building and put up elsewhere. They had struck
no root in Riff as she herself had done. Aunt Harriet had always had a
leaning towards Bournemouth. No doubt they could easily form there
another little circle where they would be admired and appreciated. There
must be the equivalent of Canon Wetherby wherever one went. Yes, they
must leave Riff. Fortunately, both aunts had only consented, much
against the grain, to live in the country on account of their sister's
health; both lamented that they were cut off from congenial literary
society; both frequently regretted the move. She would have no
difficulty in persuading them to leave Riff, for already she had had to
exercise a certain amount of persuasion to induce them to remain. She
must prepare their minds without delay.
For once, Fortune favoured her.
Aunt Harriet did not come down to breakfast, and the meal was, in
consequence, one of the pleasantest of the day, in spite of the fact
that Aunt Maria was generally oppressed with the thought of the
morning's work which was hanging over her. She was unhappy and irritable
if she did not work, and pessimistic as to the quality of what she had
written if she did work. But Aunt Harriet had a knack of occasionally
trailing in untoileted in her dressing-gown, without her _toupee_,
during breakfast, ostensibly in order to impart interesting items of
news culled from her morning letters, but in reality to glean up any
small scraps of information in the voluminous correspondence of her
sister. She did so the morning after Mrs. Stoddart's visit, carrying in
one hand her air-cushion, and with the other holding out a card to Aunt
Maria, sitting bolt upright, neatly groomed, self-respecting, behind her
silver teapot.
"Oh, Maria! See what we miss by living in the country."
Aunt Maria adjusted her pince-nez and inspected the card.
"Mission to the women of the Zambesi! H'm! H'm!"
"The Bishop will speak himself," almost wailed Aunt Harriet. "Don't you
see it, Maria? 'Will address the meeting.' Our own dear Bishop!"
"If you are alluding to the Bishop of Booleywoggah, you never went to
the previous meetings of the Society when we were in London."
"Could I help that?" said Aunt Harriet, much wounded. "Really, you
sometimes speak, Maria, as if I had not a weak spine, and could move
about as I liked. No one was more active than I was before I was struck
down, and I suppost it is only natural that I should miss the _va et
vient_, the movement, the clash of wits of London. I never have
complained,--I never do complain,--but I'm completely buried here, and
that's the truth."
"We came here on Catherine's account," said Aunt Maria. "No one
regretted the move more than I did. Except Mr. Stirling, there is no one
I really care to associate with down here." "Why remain, then," said
Annette, "if none of us like it?"
Both the aunts stared at her aghast.
"Leave Red Riff!" said Aunt Maria, as if it had been suggested that she
should leave this planet altogether.
"Why, Annette," said Aunt Harriet, with dignity, "of course we should
not think of doing such a selfish thing, now we have you to think of--at
least, I speak for myself. You love the country. It suits you. You are
not intellectual, not like us passionately absorbed in the problems of
the day. You have your little _milieu_, and your little innocent local
interests--the choir, the Sunday school, your friends the Miss
Blinketts, the Manvers, the Blacks. It would be too cruel to uproot you
now, and I for one should never consent to it."
"Aren't you happy here, Annette, that you wish to move?" said Aunt Maria
dryly.
It slid through Annette's mind that she understood why Aunt Maria
complained that few of her friends had remained loyal to her. She looked
straight in front of her. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke
again.
"I have been happy here, but I should not like Red Riff as a
permanency."
"Oh! my dear love," said Aunt Harriet, suddenly lurching from her chair
and kneeling down beside Annette, while the little air-cushion ran with
unusual vigour into the middle of the room, and then subsided with equal
suddenness on the floor. "I feared this. I have seen it coming. Men are
like that, even the clergy--I may say more especially the clergy. They
know not what they do, or what a fragile thing a young girl's heart is.
But are you not giving way to despair too early in the day? Don't you
agree with me, Maria? This may be only the night of sorrow. Joy may come
in the morning."
Annette could not help smiling. She raised her aunt, retrieved the
air-cushion, replaced her upon it, and said--
"You are making a mistake. I am not--interested in Mr. Black."
"I never thought for a moment you were," said Aunt Maria bluntly. "Mr.
Black is all very well--a most estimable person, I have no doubt. But I
don't see why you are in such a hurry to leave Riff."
"You both want to go, and so do I. As we all three wish to go, why
stay?"
"Personally, I am in no hurry to go till I have finished _The Silver
Cross_," said Aunt Maria.
"No one misses the stimulus of cultivated society more than I do, but I
always feel London life, with its large demands upon one, somewhat of a
strain when I am composing. And the seclusion of the country is
certainly conducive to work."
"And as for myself," said Aunt Harriet, with dignity, "I would not
willingly place a great distance between myself and dear Cathie's
grave." Aunt Maria and Annette winced. "And I'm sure I don't know who is
wanting to leave Riff if it isn't you, Maria. Haven't I just said that I
never do complain? Have I ever complained? And there is no doubt,
delicate as I am, I _am_ the better for the country air." Aunt Harriet
was subsiding into tears and a handkerchief. "Sea only nine miles
off--crow flies--fresh cream, new-laid eggs, more colour--Canon Wetherby
noticed it. He said, 'Some one's looking well.' And nearly a pound
gained since last weighed. And now all this talk about leaving, and
putting it on me as if it was my suggestion."
"It was mine," said Annette cheerfully, with the dreadful knowledge
which is mercifully only the outcome of affection. "I retract it. After
all, why should you both leave Riff if you like living here? Let us
each go on our way, and do what suits us best. You must both stay, and I
will go."
There was a dead silence. The two aunts looked aghast at Annette, and
she saw, almost with shame, how entirely she had the whip hand. Their
dependence on her was too complete.
"I don't understand this sudden change on your part," said Aunt Maria at
last. "Is it only a preamble to the fact that you intend to leave us a
second time?"
"Not if you live in London," said Annette firmly, "or--Bournemouth; but
I don't care for the country all the year round, and I would prefer to
move before the winter. I'm rather afraid of the effect the snow might
have on me." Aunt Harriet looked terrified. "I believe it lies very
deep, feet deep, all over Lowshire. Mrs. Stoddart has asked me to winter
with her in London, so perhaps I had better write and tell her I will do
so. And now I must go and order dinner."
She got up and left the room, leaving her two aunts staring as blankly
at each other as after their sister's funeral.
"Maria," said Aunt Harriet in a hollow voice, "we have no knowledge of
the effect of wide areas of snow upon my constitution."
"And so that was what Mrs. Stoddart came over about yesterday?" said
Aunt Maria. "She wants to get Annette away from us, and make her act as
unpaid companion to her. I must say it is fairly barefaced. Annette's
place is with us until she marries, and if it is necessary I shall
inform Mrs. Stoddart of that fact. At the same time, I have had it in my
mind for some time past that it might be advisable to shut up this house
for the winter months and take one in London."