The next day when Sherman came home from his office he saw an envelope
lying on the smoking-room table. It contained a letter from Howard,
saying that he had gone away, and that he hoped Sherman would forgive
his treachery, but that he was hopelessly in love with Miss Leland, and
that she returned his love.
Sherman went downstairs. His mother was helping the servant to set the
table.
‘You will never guess what has happened,’ he said. ‘My affair with
Margaret is over.’
‘I cannot pretend to be sorry, John,’ she replied. She had long
considered Miss Leland among accepted things, like the chimney-pots on
the roof, and submitted, as we do, to any unalterable fact, but had
never praised her or expressed liking in any way. ‘She puts belladonna
in her eyes, and is a vixen and a flirt, and I dare say her wealth is
all talk. But how did it happen?’
Her son was, however, too excited to listen.
He went upstairs and wrote the following note:
‘MY DEAR MARGARET:
‘I congratulate you on a new conquest. There is no end
to your victories. As for me, I bow myself out with
many sincere wishes for your happiness, and remain,
Your friend,
JOHN SHERMAN.’
Having posted this letter he sat down with Howard’s note spread
out before him, and wondered whether there was anything mean and
small-minded in neatness--he himself was somewhat untidy. He had
often thought so before, for their strong friendship was founded in a
great measure on mutual contempt, but now immediately added, being in
good-humour with the world, ‘He is much cleverer than I am. He must
have been very industrious at school.’
A week went by. He made up his mind to put an end to his London life.
He broke to his mother his resolve to return to Ballah. She was
delighted, and at once began to pack. Her old home had long seemed to
her a kind of lost Eden, wherewith she was accustomed to contrast the
present. When, in time, this present had grown into the past it became
an Eden in turn. She was always ready for a change, if the change came
to her in the form of a return to something old. Others place their
ideals in the future; she laid hers in the past.
The only one this momentous resolution seemed to surprise was the old
and deaf servant. She waited with ever-growing impatience. She would
sit by the hour wool-gathering on the corner of a chair with a look
of bewildered delight. As the hour of departure came near she sang
continually in a cracked voice.
Sherman, a few days before leaving, was returning for the last time
from his office when he saw, to his surprise, Howard and Miss Leland
carrying each a brown-paper bundle. He nodded good-humouredly, meaning
to pass on.
‘John,’ she said, ‘look at this brooch William gave me--a ladder
leaning against the moon and a butterfly climbing up it. Is it not
sweet? We are going to visit the poor.’
‘And I,’ he said, ‘am going to catch eels. I am leaving town.’
He made his excuses, saying he had no time to wait, and hurried off.
She looked after him with a mournful glance, strange in anybody who had
exchanged one lover for another more favoured.
‘Poor fellow,’ murmured Howard, ‘he is broken-hearted.’
‘Nonsense,’ answered Miss Leland, somewhat snappishly.