GOING TO LONDON
Mercifully, no soul can stand at the pitch of tension long. Those too
frail snap. The strong relax. As I have learned since, few who have to
do with lingering illness but come to know the gradual, inevitable
dulling of apprehension in the watchers. Eric says the power of human
adaptability sees to it that the abnormal state of the sufferer shall
come by mere continuance to wear an air of the normal. And so the
watcher, with no violence to loyalty, or conscience, is relieved of the
sharper sympathy.
Certainly, my mother seemed to us in no worse case than many a time
before. Bettina and I agreed that she began to improve the moment
Duncombe air was no longer poisoned for her by the presence of poor
Madame Aurore. What Eric had said of our trustworthy servants was true.
Yet I had brought my mother to agree that my absence, now, was to be a
matter only of hours, even if I went back for the Coronation.
And still I was not spared a profound sinking of the heart at the
moment of leave-taking. I put my misgiving down to the fear that parting
from Bettina for four long weeks, would be more than my mother's scant
reserve of strength could bear.
As for Bettina (oh, when I remember that!)--Bettina showed the bravest
front; calling back from the door: "I shall write you every blessed
day."
"Yes," my mother steadied her voice to answer. "I shall want to hear
everything. The good and--the less good."
"There won't be any 'less good.' It's all going to be glorious."
* * * * *
As Big Klaus's dog-cart took us across the heath I strained my eyes for
some glimpse of Eric. A week that day since he had come and shared his
secret! He could never mean to let me go without a word. Not till the
train was in motion could I give up hope. I stood a moment longer at the
window looking back. No sign.
I took my seat between Betty and an old gentleman; she and I both too
stirred and excited to talk. Betty, half-turned away, looked out of her
window, and I, across her shoulder and over the flying hedges, looked
still for a man who might be walking the field-paths, looked for the
bright green roof of his Bungalow, looked for the chimneys of the farm.
No sign.
I sat fighting down my tears.
Not an hour of these bustling days had been so full, but I had felt the
blank of Eric's silence. And now again I met the ache of loss with: This
will teach you! You were dreading a little time away. He adds a week to
our parting. _He_ doesn't mind. It's only you, poor fool--only you who
mind.
I looked round, in a sudden terror, lest anyone should be noticing that
my eyes were wet.
Mercifully, the people were all looking at Betty. I looked at Betty,
too. I could not see her eyes, but the nearer cheek was that lovely
colour whose name she gave once to an evening sky. We had come up on the
top of a knoll and stood for a moment, breathless. My mother had said no
painter could get such a colour. And neither were there any words in the
language to describe it. For it was not red, not flame, not pink, nor
orange. But Betty, looking steadily, had found the right words for it:
"A fiery rose."
And that was the colour in Betty's cheeks on the way to London.
No wonder people looked at her. There was a man who got out of the
first-class carriage next us at every station, and walked by our window.
He looked in at Bettina. I was glad our carriage was full. I felt sure,
if it had not been, he would have come in. I could see Bettina did not
resent the staring. And then I saw her look out of the corner of her
eyes.
"Bettina!" I whispered. "Don't encourage that strange man to stare in
here."
"_Me?_" she said. "What am I doing?"
I told her again that she encouraged him. But I was handicapped by not
being able to say just how. I admitted that what she did was very
slight. But it was enough. "It was what you did to Eddie Monmouth."
Then, because she pretended not to understand, I told her that she was
falling into bad deceitful ways. I knew she had written to Ranny
Dallas.... Yes, and kept writing, though the moment I realised what was
going on I wrote to Ranny myself. I said if any more letters came from
him, I should have to tell Betty about the girl in Norfolk. Ranny wrote
back that he had told Betty himself! And still they went on
corresponding, secretly. I said to her now, that I should hardly be
surprised if she was hoping to meet Ranny in London.
"Oh, one may 'hope' almost anything," said Betty airily.
"Not of a man who is engaged to another girl!"
"Yes," said Betty; "as long as he isn't married...."
Then, rather frightened, I asked outright if she was really expecting to
meet Ranny somewhere.
"How can I say? He is fond of the opera," she said in a very superior,
grown-up way. "I _might_ happen to see him some night in the throng----"
"In the throng! Betty," I said. "You have given Ranny Dallas your
address."
"No," she said; "but I've given it to Tom Courtney."
Tom Courtney was Ranny's red-haired friend. "If you had watched," Betty
said, "you would know that I was corresponding with Tom Courtney, too.
Chiefly about Ranny. Tom Courtney is a splendid friend. He explains
things much better than Ranny can. And then" (Betty's momentary
annoyance vanished in laughter)--"then, too, Tom can spell--beautifully!"
I refused to laugh.
"I knew you'd be horrified," Betty said again, "and that is why I have
to keep things from you. You are a sort of nun. _You_ never feel as if
all your blood had been whipped to a syllabub. And besides----"
"Besides?"
"I do like nice men. I don't mind their knowing. And I don't mean to be
an old maid. _You_ wouldn't care."
"You think I wouldn't?" I had no time to say more, for the train
stopped. We thought at first we had reached Victoria Station, but it was
only Clapham Junction. The "staring" man passed once more, with a porter
behind carrying golf-clubs and portmanteau. Our carriage, too, was
emptying. The people stood and reached things down from the racks, and
then filed out. When the train went on we were alone.
Betty was still excited, but more grave, even harassed--a look that sat
rather pitiful on her babyish face.
I moved up close to her again, and I told her there was something I had
to say before we got to London. "You and I, you see, we don't know very
much, and we get carried away."
"You mean me," said Betty. "You are thinking about Eddie Monmouth
and----"
Then I told her I did not mean her alone. "I don't know how it is," I
said, remembering Mr. Whitby-Dawson and Captain Monmouth and Ranny--yes,
and others--"I don't know how it is, but girls seem to 'care' more than
men do."
"I've thought that, too," Bettina said.
I said I was sure it was true. Men had so much to do. Life was so full
for them ... perhaps that took their minds off. I put my arm round
Bettina and held her close. "I am going to confess something," I said,
"that most older sisters would deny. But you have got nobody but me. And
I have nobody but you. We must help each other."
"I shall have Aunt Josephine," Betty reminded me.
"A stranger--and too old besides." I dismissed Aunt Josephine for the
particular purpose in view. "I am going to tell you something
very--particular." Then, while she looked at the cushions opposite, and
I looked out of the window, I told her I had learned from Eric Annan
what she had learned through the others. "We'll say it just this once,
and never, never again so long as we live! And we may have to deny it,"
I warned her. "But I think, if I'm honest about it with you, maybe you
won't feel that I don't understand ... or that I am, as you say,
'different.' You will feel closer to me," I pleaded. "And maybe we shall
both be stronger for that." I waited a moment. I was glad Betty still
stared straight in front of her. "We don't only care more than men do,"
I said. "We _need_ men more than they need us."
Bettina turned at that. I felt her eyes on me. Then she looked down and
stroked my hand.
"I think Mr. Annan does care about you," she said.
"A little," I said. "Not enough. Not as I care."
Bettina pointed out that Eric Annan was not so young as we. "Why, he
must be thirty. Perhaps when he was our age"--our eyes met in the new
comradeship, and then fell--"he may have taken more interest in--more
interest in the things we think about."
Then she took it back. "No, no. You may depend it's only girls who are
like that--caring so terribly much. I thought it was only me. But if you
are like that too, maybe there are others." After a moment: "You were
good to tell me," she said. "I don't feel so--unnatural."
The train was slowing. The light grew grey. We were in a dim place,
between a smoky wall and a rattling train going out as we came in. Then
the platform, and the porters running along by our windows. "Luggage,
miss?"
Bettina started up.
"Aunt Josephine!"