As she came in, Aylmer looked at her with more observation than usual,
and he acknowledged to himself that she was pretty--remarkably pretty,
quite a picture, as people say, and he liked her, as one likes a
confidante, a reliable friend. He trusted her, remembering how he had
given himself away to her that dreadful day in the Boulogne hospital....
And she had another quality that pleased him immensely; she was neither
coquettish nor affected, but simple and serious. She appeared to think
solely of her duties, and in Aylmer's opinion that was just what a nurse
should do.
* * * * *
But Edith's remark that Dulcie was madly in love with him had made a
certain impression on his mind. Indeed, everything Edith said, even a
merely trivial observation, was of importance to Aylmer. Edith wouldn't
have said that unless she meant it. If it was true, did it matter?
Aylmer was very free from vanity and masculine coquetry. He had a good
deal of pride and great self-respect. Like almost every human being who
is superior to the average, he didn't think ill of himself; there were
things that he was proud of. He was proud, secretly, of having gone into
the army and of having been wounded. It made him feel he was not on the
shelf, not useless and superannuated. He took a certain pride also in
his judgement, his excellent judgement on pictures and literature.
Perhaps, even, having been a spoilt only child, he was privately proud
of some of his faults. He knew he was extravagant and impatient. The
best of everything was barely good enough for Aylmer. Long before he
inherited the property that had come to him a year ago he had never been
the sort of young man who would manage on little; who would, for
example, go to the gallery by Underground or omnibus to see a play or to
the opera. He required comfort, elbow-room, ease. For that reason he had
worked really hard at the Bar so as to have enough money to live
according to his ideas. Not that he took any special interest in the
Bar. His ideal had always been--if it could be combined--to be either a
soldier or a man of leisure, devoted to sport, literature and art.
Now he had asserted himself as a soldier, and he meant to go back. But
he looked forward to leisure to enjoy and indulge his favourite tastes,
if possible, with the only woman he had ever been deeply in love with.
He was particularly attractive to women, who liked his strong will and
depth of feeling, his assertive manner and that feeling of trust that he
inspired. Women always know when a man will not treat them badly.
Teddy's mother, his first wife, he had really married out of pity.
When she died everyone regarded it as a tragedy except himself. He still
worshipped his mother, whose little miniature he kept always by him, and
he had always fancied that Edith resembled her. This was simply an _idée
d'amoureux_, for there was no resemblance. His mother, according to the
miniature, had the dark hair and innocent expression that were the
fashion at the time, while Edith was fair, with rather dark eyebrows,
grey eyes and the mouth and chin characteristic of Burne-Jones's and
Rossetti's pictures. But though she might be in appearance a
Burne-Jones, she was very modern. His favourite little photograph of her
that he had shown, in his moment of despair, to Dulcie, showed a
charming face, sensuous yet thoughtful, under a large hat. She had fur
up to her chin, and was holding a muff; it was a snapshot taken the
winter before they had parted.
Aylmer worshipped these two women: his dead mother and the living woman
whom he had never given up entirely. How unlike were both the types to
Dulcie Clay, with her waved Madonna hair, dark skin, large, clear blue
eyes, softened by eyelashes of extraordinary length. Her chin was very
small, her mouth fine, rather thin; she had a pathetic expression; one
could imagine her attending, helping, nursing, holding a child in her
arms, but not his intellectual equal, guiding and directing like his
mother; and without the social brilliance and charm of Edith.
* * * * *
Seeing him looking at her with a long, observant look, Dulcie became
nervous and trembled slightly. She waited for him to speak.
'Come here, Miss Clay. I want to speak to you.'
Instantly she sat down by him.
'I wanted to say--you've been most awfully kind to me.'
Dulcie murmured something.
'I'm nearly well now--aren't I?'
'Dr Wood says you can go out driving next week.'
'Yes; but I don't mean that. I mean, I'm well in myself?'
He spoke quickly, almost impatiently.
'The doctor says you're still suffering from nervous shock;' she
answered in a toneless voice, professionally.
'Still, very soon I shan't need any attendance that a valet or a
housekeeper couldn't give me, shall I?'
'No, I suppose not.'
'Well, my dear Miss Clay--of course, I shall hate you to go,' he said
politely, 'but don't you think we ought to be thinking--'
He stopped.
She answered:
'Of course I'll go whenever you and Dr Wood think it right.'
'You see,' he went on, 'I know I shall need a housekeeper, especially
when Teddy comes back. He's coming back on leave next week'--Aylmer
glanced at the telegram in his hand--'and, well--'
'You don't think I could--'
'Of course you would make a splendid housekeeper,' he laughed. 'You are
already, but--'
She didn't wish to make him uncomfortable. Evidently he was thinking
what she knew herself. But she was so reluctant to go.
'Don't you think I could remain here for a little while?' she said
modestly. 'To do the housekeeping and be useful? You see, I've nowhere
to go really.'
'But, my dear girl, excuse me, don't you see you're rather too--young.
It would be selfish of me to let you.'
He wished to say that it would be compromising, but a certain
consciousness prevented his saying it. He felt he would be ridiculous if
he put it into words.
'Just as you like. How soon do you think I ought to go?'
Though she tried not to show it, there was a look almost of despair in
her face. Her eyes looked startled, as if trying not to shed tears.
He was very sorry for her, but tried to hide it by a cool and impatient
manner.
'Well, shall we say in about a fortnight?'
'Certainly.' She looked down.
'I shall miss you awfully,' he said, speaking more quickly than usual to
get it over.
She gave a very small smile.
'Er--and then may I ask what you're thinking of doing next?'
'That was just what I was thinking about,' she answered rather naïvely.
'There are so few things I can do.'
Then fearing this sentence sounded like begging to remain, she hastily
added:
'And of course if I don't go home I might be a companion or look after
children.'
'I wonder if Mrs Ottley--' began Aylmer. 'She has a dear little girl,
and I've heard her say she would soon want someone.'
'Dilly?' said Dulcie, with a slight smile.
'Yes, Dilly.'
There was a moment of intense awkwardness between them.
Then Dulcie said:
'I'm afraid that wouldn't quite do. I'm not clever enough.'
'Oh, rot. You know enough for a child like that. I shall speak to Mrs
Ottley about it.'
'It's very, very kind of you, but I would rather not. I think I shall
try to be a companion.'
'What's the name of that woman,' Aylmer said good-naturedly, 'that Irish
woman, wife of one of the Cabinet Ministers, who came to the hospital at
Boulogne and wanted to have lessons?'
'Lady Conroy,' Dulcie answered.
'Yes, Lady Conroy. Supposing that she needed a secretary or companion,
would you dislike that?'
'Oh, no, I should like it very much.'
'Right. I'll get Mrs Ottley to speak to her about it. She said she was
coming to London, didn't she?'
'Yes. I got to know her fairly well,' said Dulcie. 'She's very
charming.'
'She's celebrated for her bad memory,' Aylmer said, with a smile.
'She declares she forgets her own name sometimes. Once she got into a
taxi and told the man to drive home. When he asked where that was, she
said it was his business to know. She had forgotten her address.'
They both laughed.
'I'll go tomorrow,' said Dulcie, 'and see my stepmother, if you don't
want me in the afternoon. Or, perhaps, the day you go for a drive would
be better.'
'Tell me, Miss Clay, aren't you happy at home?'
'Oh, it isn't that. They don't want me. I'm in the way. You see, they've
got used to my being out of the house.'
'But, excuse me--you don't earn your own living really?'
'No, that isn't really necessary. But I don't want to live at home.'
Her face showed such a decided distaste to the idea that he said no
more.
'You're looking very well today,' Dulcie said.
He sighed. 'I feel rather rotten. I can't read, can't settle to
anything.'
She looked at him sympathetically. He felt impelled to go on.
'I'm a bit worried,' he continued.
'About your son?'
'No, not about him so much, though I wish he would get a flesh wound and
be sent back,' his father said, laughing. 'But about myself.'
She looked at him in silence.
'You know--what I told you.'
She made no answer, looking away to give him time to speak.
'I've made a suggestion,' he said slowly.... 'If it's accepted it'll
alter all my life. Of course I shall go out again. But still it will
alter my life.'
Suddenly, overpowered by the longing for sympathy, he said to himself
aloud.
'I wonder if there's a chance.'
'I don't know what it is,' she murmured, but instinctively she had
guessed something of it.
'I don't want to think about it any more at present.'
'Shall I read to you?'
'Yes, do.'
She quietly arranged a pillow behind him and took up a newspaper.
He often liked her to read to him; he never listened to a word of it,
but it was soothing.
She had taken up 'This Morning's Gossip' from _The Daily Mail_, and she
began in the soft, low, distinct voice reading from The Rambler:
'Lord Redesdale says that when Lord Haldane's scheme for a Territorial
Army was on foot he took it to the--'
Aylmer stopped her.
'No--not that'
'Shall I read you a novel?'
'I think I should like to hear some poetry today,' he answered.
She had taken up a pretty, tiny little book that lay on his table,
called _Lyrists of the Restoration_, and began to read aloud:
5165
'_Phyllis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas,
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please_.'
'Oh, please, stop,' Aylmer cried.
She looked up.
'It tinkles like an old-fashioned musical-box. Try another.'
'What would you like?' she asked, smiling.
He took up a French book and passed it to her.
'You'll think I'm very changeable, but I should like this. Read me the
beginning of _La-Bos_.'
And she began.
He listened with his eyes closed, lulled by the curious technique, with
its constant repetitions and jewelled style, charmed altogether. She
read French fluently enough.
'That's delightful,' he said, but he soon noticed she was stumbling over
the words. No, it was not suitable for her to read. He was obstinate,
however, and was determined she should read him something.
* * * * *
So they fell back on _Northanger Abbey_.