_WRONG ON BOTH SIDES._
IT is easy to predict what people will say or do under particular
forthcoming circumstances; but it is astonishing how seldom such
predictions come exactly true. And perhaps it is more astonishing still
how slow we are to take a lesson from such failures, and to cease
predicting.
Of all uncertain individuals, Diana Fenwick was one of the most
uncertain, from the simple reason that she acted entirely upon impulse,
and that the faintest breeze sometimes swayed her unexpectedly to right
or left.
Marian and Beryl sat long together, talking part of the time, and part
of the time watching in anxious silence for Diana's return.
Would she return at all that evening? Had she resolved to embarrass
Marian by staying all night in London? Hardly an unkind supposition
this, for Diana was given to such actions when out of temper. If she
came back, what would be her mood? How if she absolutely declined to
give her sister shelter?
"In which case there is nothing left for me but absolutely to decline
to go," Marian said, laughing, as she discussed the question with
Beryl. "I am determined on one point, and that is, to avoid a sisterly
'split.' Di will thank me by and by for preventing it. If she orders
me away, I shall not go; and she will scarcely call a policeman to her
aid."
But laugh as they might, they grew nervous with expectant waiting. A
woman's ill-humours may be puny, yet have they power to cause distress
and uneasiness. Marian was tired, and shrank from an encounter of
wills; and Beryl dreaded having to tell about Pearl.
A railway cab stopped again before the door, and Marian exchanged
glances with Beryl. Neither of the two stirred.
"I declare I am a positive coward to-night," Marian said. "Hush—here
she comes."
Diana tripped into the room, smiling and gay, with her youngest and
prettiest look, of late entirely wanting.
"So you have arrived, Marian," she said. "How do you do? Where is
Pearl? Gone to bed, I suppose. And Beryl has come back from Miss
Carmichael's. Pearson, give me that bonnet-box—carefully. Don't bump it
down on the table. Tell Maria I must have something to eat directly. I
am as hungry as a hunter, and I forgot to give any orders this morning
about supper. If she has nothing else, she can poach me some eggs.
I dare say Miss Crosbie will want something too. Well, I have had a
delightful day in London. How did you leave them all, Marian?"
Marian was too much bewildered by the changed aspect of affairs to say
more than, "Pretty well."
"Escott never is well, of course: so one can't expect it. Has Beryl
seen to your bedrooms and everything? But of course she has,—I always
find Beryl practical. It was unfortunate my having to be away, but I
could not put off going any longer. I have been to see an oculist."
Marian nearly said, "So Beryl told me," but checked herself. "What does
he think, Di?" she asked. "You mentioned a weakness in your eyes some
months ago."
"Yes; and it has been worse. One can't talk about that sort of thing
to everybody; but I went to see an oculist in the summer—not the
same as to-day—and he frightened me horribly, talked about cataract,
and blindness, and operations, till I almost thought I should die of
nervousness. To have a dread like that hanging over one night and day
is frightful. I don't know how I have borne it."
"And the oculist you have seen to-day?"
"Oh, he takes quite a different view of my case. He says it is not
cataract at all. In fact, he quite pooh-poohs the other's opinion. It
is 'such' a relief. I feel like a different person."
Marian and Beryl both began to realise, and to realise pityingly,
something of what poor Diana had gone through of late. After all, there
is often all unseen cause for the harsh and unpleasant moods of another.
Beryl said nothing. She found it more difficult to express sympathy
with Diana in joy than in sorrow; yet she felt sympathy. A positive
glow of unselfish gladness was on her, unhindered by recollections
of Diana's late coldness. Diana, however, did not seem to be on the
look-out for congratulations, neither did she appear to retain her
displeasure. She was in high spirits, and evidently in high good-humour
with everybody.
"I went there the first thing, so as to have my mind set at rest," she
said. "I felt sure Miss Carmichael thought the other man mistaken; and
somehow Miss Carmichael is a person whose opinion one trusts. It is
odd how one can stand suspense up to a certain point, and then one can
bear it no longer. I have felt lately as if I did not 'want' to have
the matter settled,—I was so afraid of having to give up all hope.
And yesterday it came over me suddenly that I couldn't wait another
twenty-four hours, and must positively be off the first thing this
morning. I am sure I am glad enough now that I went. It is an immense
relief."
"Does he say that nothing at all is wrong with your eyes?" asked Marian.
"Why, no—not that, of course; I couldn't expect it. He doesn't say
exactly what is wrong, only he says it is not cataract. He talks of
weakness of the nerve, and says it depends a good deal on my general
health. I am to feed up well, and to avoid worries, and to have change
of air, and I must not read much, or do fine work, or try them in any
way. But it isn't cataract—that is my comfort—and I have not to look
forward to anything so awful as blindness. I feel as if I had come back
to life again. It has been horrible lately."
"You have much to be thankful for," Marian said—a little too much as if
she were quoting from a sermon.
"Of course. Will you have poached eggs for supper, or have you had all
you want? Has Pearl had plenty?"
"Beryl has seen to my needs, thank you. Pearl has not come back with
me, Di."
Diana had risen, and was unfastening the bonnet-box which stood on the
table. She paused suddenly, and looked up.
"Not come!"
"No; she changed her mind just at last."
"What for?" asked Diana.
Marian was reluctant to enter on perilous discussions, but an answer
had to be given. "You wrote to Pearl," she said.
"Well! What then?" demanded Diana.
"Pearl did not seem to think she would have a warm welcome."
"Nonsense," Diana said tartly. "The little goose!"
"Pearl is engaged to Escott," said Marian.
"Next best to Ivor, I suppose," said Diana. "I always expected that,
sooner or later. Pearl might have had the grace to refer to me, I
think,—considering the past."
An ominous red spot had risen to either cheek, and she opened the
bandbox with a jerk.
"I might have spared myself some trouble to-day, choosing a new hat for
Pearl. Thank goodness, I shall have no responsibility in the matter. A
sickly fellow like Escott—she will be in for a life of nursing. But of
course Millicent only sees his side of the matter. Has Pearl written to
me?"
"No," Beryl said sorrowfully. "Only a few lines to me, Aunt Di."
"Confidential, of course," said Diana with a sneer.
"No," repeated Beryl. "Pearl gives me leave to show you the letter. But
it would be better not, if you don't mind. Pearl wrote when she was
vexed."
Diana held out her hand with a decisive gesture, and Beryl had no
choice.
Diana read the letter quickly, her colour deepening, and at the end she
tossed it back.
"That's a nice composition. Nice sort of gratitude too. It is a lesson
against taking up other people's children. Talk of tempers! Escott will
have his hands full, if he doesn't look-out."
"I was anxious that Pearl should come home with me still," Marian
said, desirous to soften matters. "But she seemed afraid, after your
unfortunate letter, that you did not really want her."
"Unfortunate letter! Nonsense! There was nothing in it," said Diana,
who, like many hasty people, had but vague recollections when a fit of
anger was over, of her own words spoken or written during its duration.
"There was nothing at all in that letter which could make Pearl think
anything of the sort. My letter is a mere excuse. But at all events,
the matter is settled now. I do 'not' want Pearl, and I don't care who
tells her so. She may stay away and welcome—so much the less expense
and bother for me. What do I care? The sooner she marries, the better."
Did Diana not care? Her companions wondered, looking at her. The tossed
head and flushed cheek scarcely bespoke indifference. If she had loved
anybody, she had seemingly loved Pearl.
"The wedding ought to take place from here," said Marian.
"Thanks! The affair is Millicent's, not mine. There has been precious
little consideration of my wishes. Pearl has taken her choice, and she
may abide by it. I wash my hands of Pearl and the whole affair."
Diana was rather given to "washing her hands" of friends and relatives.
She went out of the room, shutting the door sharply behind her, in the
manner of a spoilt child.
"If I had guessed the kind of letter Pearl had written, I would not
have brought it," Marian said.
"Miss Carmichael often says people ought to wait twenty-four hours
before sending off a letter, if it is the least bit doubtful," remarked
Beryl.
The breeze about Marian seemed to have died away, or perhaps it was
lost sight of in the stronger breeze about Pearl. Marian settled
quietly down into her old quarters, and Diana offered no objection.
Either she had not meant all she had said, or her mind was preoccupied
with other matters.
She showed, however, no signs of a readiness to forgive Pearl. In
other respects, she was in high spirits, and in a state of unwonted
good-humour; but the most distant allusion to Pearl brought an angry
flush to her cheeks. Wounded pride had much to do with the matter.
Diana's self-esteem was hurt by Pearl's independent action. But there
was the bitterness of wounded affection also. Diana's affection, never
of a self-forgetting nature, could not easily recover the blow.
She was laying aside invalid habits, and taking again to walking,
driving, and paying calls, apparently with much enjoyment. Her usual
version of affairs to friends was in brief,—"Pearl has gone and engaged
herself to Escott Cumming, poor little thing. Very foolish, of course,
with his health,—and she a mere child still. But my consent was not
asked, happily. My sister has undertaken all the responsibility. Escott
is a very good fellow, but not equal to poor dear Ivor. The wedding
will probably take place in France, and very soon. No particular object
in putting it off. I have not any present intention of going, but
matters are scarcely settled yet. In fact, I really do not care to give
the sanction of my presence. Poor little Pearl! I only hope she will
not have cause to regret the step."
Some sympathised with Mrs. Fenwick, counting her slighted in return
for years of kindness. Some said, "Mrs. Fenwick seems rather vexed
about this affair of Pearl and Mr. Cumming." A few, among whom was Miss
Carmichael, said, "Mrs. Fenwick is unhappy about Pearl."
"But I don't see why she should be," said Beryl, to whom the words were
spoken by Miss Carmichael.
"Try to see both sides of the matter, Beryl. Mrs. Fenwick has lavished
love and care upon Pearl for years. Is this quite the return she has a
right to expect?"
"Only, Aunt Di wrote her such a letter!—and with no real reason."
"That is no excuse for Pearl. She owes patience and forbearance, to say
the least, in return for all she has received. Remember, Beryl, but for
Mrs. Fenwick you two might have been struggling year after year for
your very bread, instead of living in ease and comfort."
Beryl's eyes filled with tears, "Ah! But I should have kept my Pearlie
then."
Miss Carmichael looked steadily at Beryl. "Yes," she said, after a
pause, "that has been your trial. But I am not quite sure that the same
might not have come in other circumstances. I am afraid Pearl's is
scarcely a constant nature."
Beryl's "Oh!" was as nearly indignant as any word she had ever
addressed to Miss Carmichael.
"I think not," repeated Miss Carmichael. "Look at her action about Mrs.
Fenwick."
"I can't bear to think any harm of Pearl," said Beryl.
"Then don't," responded Miss Carmichael, smiling. "I like you the
better for the feeling. But do not heap a double supply of blame on
Mrs. Fenwick, merely because you cannot endure to blame Pearl. That
would not be fair. Pearl is in the wrong now."