For a woman who was warm-hearted, sensitive and thoughtful, Edith had a
singularly happy disposition. First, she was good-tempered; not touchy,
not easily offended about trifles. Such vanity as she had was not in an
uneasy condition; she cared very little for general admiration, and had
no feeling for competition. She was without ambition to be superior to
others. Then, though she saw more deeply into things than the generality
of women, she was not fond of dwelling on the sad side of life. Very
small things pleased her, while trifles did not annoy her. Hers was not
the placidity of the stupid, fat, contented person who never troubles
about other people.
She was rather of a philosophical turn, and her philosophy tended to
seeing the brighter side. Where she was singularly fortunate was that
though she felt pleasure deeply--a temperament that feels pain in
proportion--her suffering, though acute, seldom lasted long. There was
an elasticity in her disposition that made her rebound quickly from
a blow.
Her affections were intense, but she did not suffer the usual penalty of
love--a continual dread of losing the loved object. If she adored her
children and was thankful for their health and beauty, she was not
exactly what is called an anxious mother. She thought much about them,
and was very determined to have her own way in anything concerning them.
That, indeed, was a subject on which she would give way to no-one. But
as she had so far succeeded in directing them according to her own
ideas, she was satisfied. And she was very hopeful. She could look
forward to happiness, but troubles she dealt with as they arose.
Certainly, after the first few months of their marriage, Bruce had
turned out a disappointment. But now that she knew him, knew the worst
of him, she did not think bad. He had an irritating personality. But
most people had to live with someone who was a little irritating; and
she was so accustomed to his various ways and weaknesses that she could
deal with them unmoved, almost mechanically. She did not take him
seriously. She would greatly have preferred, of course, that he should
understand her, that she could look up to him and lean on him. But as
this was not so, she made the best of it, and managed to be contented
enough. Three years ago she had not even known she could be deeply
in love.
She had loved Aylmer Ross. But even at that time, when Bruce gave her
the opportunity, by his wild escapade with Miss Argles, to free herself
and marry Aylmer--her ideal of divine happiness at the time--somehow she
could not do it. She had a curious sense of responsibility towards
Bruce, which came in the way.
Often since then she had had regrets; she had even felt it had been a
mistake to throw away such a chance. But she reflected that she would
have regrets anyhow. It would have worried her to know that Bruce needed
her. For all that, she knew he did, if unconsciously. So she had made up
her mind to content herself with a life which, though peaceful, was
certainly, to her temperament, decidedly incomplete.
Edith had other sources of happiness more acute than that of the
average. She took an intense and keen enjoyment in life itself.
Everything interested her, amused her. She was never bored. She so much
enjoyed the mere spectacle of life that she never required to be the
central figure. When she had to play the part of a mere spectator it
didn't depress her; she could delight in society and in character as if
at a theatre. On the other hand, as she had a good deal of initiative
and a strong personality, she could also revel in action, in playing a
principal part. Under a quiet manner her courage was daring and her
spirit high. Unless someone or something was actively tormenting her, to
an extent quite insupportable, she was contented, even gay.
Her past romance with Aylmer had naturally opened to her a source of
delight that she knew nothing of before.
Since she had seen him again she scarcely knew how she felt about it.
This day she was to see him again alone, because he wished it, and
because Dulcie Clay had begged her to gratify the wish.
Why was it, she asked herself, that the little nurse desired they should
be alone together? It was perfectly clear, to a woman with Edith's
penetration, that Dulcie was in love with Aylmer. Also, she was equally
sure that the girl believed Aylmer to be devoted to her, Edith. Then it
must be the purest unselfishness. Dulcie probably, she thought, loved
him with a kind of hopeless worship. She had seen him ill and weak, she
pitied him, she wanted him to be happy. In return for this generosity
Edith felt a generous kindness for her, a sympathy that she would never
have believed she could feel at seeing such a beautiful girl on those
rather intimate terms with Aylmer.
It must mean, simply, that Edith knew Aylmer cared for her still. A look
was enough to convince her that at least he still took a great and deep
interest in her. And she wanted to come to an understanding with him, or
she could have avoided a _tête-à-tête_.
During the three years he had been away the feeling had calmed down, but
the ideal was still there, and the memory. Whenever Bruce was
maddening--which was fairly often--when she heard music, when she saw
beautiful scenery, when she was reading a romantic book, when any other
man admired her, Aylmer was always in her thoughts.
When Edith saw him again she was not sure that she had not worn out her
passion by dwelling on it. But that might easily be caused by the mere
_gêne_ of the first two or three meetings. There is a shyness, a sort of
coldness, in meeting again a person one has passionately loved. To see
the dream in flesh and blood, the thought made concrete, once more
brings poetry down to prose. Then the terms they met on now were
changed. He was playing such a different part. Instead of the strong,
determined man who had voluntarily left her, refusing to know her as a
friend, and reproaching her bitterly for playing with him, as he called
it, here was a broken invalid, a pathetic figure who appealed to
entirely different sentiments. There is naturally something maternal in
a woman's feeling to a sick man. There was also the halo that surrounds
the wounded hero. He was not ill through weakness, but through strength
and courage.
She found herself thinking of him day and night, but it was in a
different way. It might be because he had not yet referred to their past
love affair.
Edith dressed with unusual care to go and see him today. Even if a woman
wishes to discourage or to break off all relations with a man, she
doesn't, after all, wish to leave a disagreeable impression.
Her prettiness and charm--of which she was modestly but confidently
aware, by her experience of its effect--was a great satisfaction. It was
remarkably noticeable today. In front of the glass Edith hesitated
between her favourite plain sailor hat and a new black velvet toque,
which shaded her eyes, contrasting with the fair hair of which very
little showed, and giving her an aspect of dashing yet discreet
coquetry. She looked younger in the other sailor hat (so she decided
when she put it on again) and more as she used to look. Which was the
more attractive? She decided on novelty, and went out, finally, in
the toque.
Of course only another woman could have appreciated the remarkable fact
that she could wear at thirty-five such a small hat and yet look fresh.
Certainly a brim was more flattering to most women of her age, but the
contour of Edith's face was still as youthful as ever; she had one of
those clearly shaped oval faces that are not disposed to growing thick
and broad, or to haggardness. The oval might be a shade wider than it
was three years ago; that was all the more becoming; did it not make the
features look smaller?
* * * * *
As she went out she laughed at herself for giving so much thought to her
appearance. It was as though she believed she was going to play an
important part in the chief scene of a play.
Once dressed, as usual she lost all self-consciousness, and thought of
outside things.
Miss Clay was out, as she had told Edith she would be, and the servant
showed her in.
She saw at once that Aylmer, also, had been looking forward to this
moment with some excitement. He, too, had dressed with special care; and
she knew, without being told, that orders had been given to receive no
other visitors.
He was sitting in an arm-chair, with the bandaged leg on the other
chair, a small table by his side laid for tea. Even a kettle was boiling
(no doubt to avoid interruption). It was his old brown library, where
she had occasionally seen him with others in the old days. But this was
literally the first time she had seen him in his own house alone.
It was essentially a man's room. Comfortable, but not exactly luxurious;
very little was sacrificed to decoration.
There were a few very old dark pictures on the walls. The room was
crammed with books in long, low bookcases. On the mantelpiece was a
pewter vase of cerise-coloured carnations.
An uncut _English Review_ was in his hand, but he threw it on the floor
with a characteristic gesture as she came in.
'You look very comfortable,' said Edith, as she took her seat in the
arm-chair placed for her.
He answered gravely, speaking in his direct, quick way, with his sincere
manner:
'It was very good of you to come.'
'Shall I pour out your tea?'
'Yes. Let's have tea and get it over.'
She laughed, took off her gloves, and he watched her fingers as they
occupied themselves with the china, as though he were impatient for the
ceremony to be finished.
While she poured it out and handed it to him he said not a word. She saw
that he looked pale and seemed rather nervous. Each tried to put the
other at ease, more by looks than words. Edith saw it would worry him to
make conversation. They knew each other well enough to exchange ideas
without words.
He had something to say and she would not postpone it. That would
irritate him.
'There,' said Aylmer, giving a little push to the table. 'Do you want
any more tea?'
'No, thanks.'
'Well--do you mind coming a little nearer?'
She lifted the little table, put it farther behind his chair, placed the
arm-chair closer to him by the fire, and sat down again. He looked at
her for some time with a serious expression. Then he said, rather
abruptly and unexpectedly:
'What a jolly hat!'
'Oh, I _am_ glad you like it!' exclaimed Edith. 'I was afraid you'd hate
it.'
For the first time they were talking in their old tone, she reflected.
'No, I like it--I love it.' He lowered his voice to say this.
'I'm glad,' she repeated.
'And I love you,' said Aylmer as abruptly, and in a still lower voice.
She didn't answer.
'Look here, Edith. I want to ask you something.'
'Yes.'
He seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. He was agitated.
'Have you forgotten me?'
'You can see I haven't, or I wouldn't be here,' she answered.
'Don't fence with me. I mean, really. Are you the same as when I went
away?'
'Aylmer, do you think we had better talk about it?'
'We must. I must. I can't endure the torture of seeing you just like
anybody else. You know I told you--' He stopped a moment.
'You told me you'd never be a mere friend,' she said. 'But everything's
so different now!'
'It isn't different; that's where you're wrong. You're just the same,
and so am I. Except that I care for you far more than I ever did.'
'Oh, Aylmer!'
'When I thought I was dying I showed your little photograph to Miss
Clay. I told her all about it. I suppose I was rather mad. It was just
after an operation. It doesn't matter a bit; she wouldn't ever say
a word.'
'I'm sure she wouldn't.'
'I had to confide in somebody,' he went on. 'I told her to send you back
the photograph, and I told her that my greatest wish was to see
you again.'
'Well, my dear boy, we have met again! Do change your mind from what you
said last! I mean when you went away.' She spoke in an imploring tone.
'Do you wish to be friends, then?'
She hesitated a moment, then said: 'Yes, I do.'