_INEXPLICABLE._
_May 15th, Thursday._
SUCH a strange thing has happened! Mr. Derwentwater never came in at
all yesterday evening. There was rain, certainly, but he does not mind
rain.
When he first spoke of calling, Clarissa asked him to dinner. He said
he had promised to dine with an old aunt of his, but he would be free
by half-past eight, and he would walk on here. Clarissa remarked, "Then
we are sure to see you!" And he replied, "Quite sure!"
And after all, he never appeared, though he expected me to be leaving
to-day. He could not have heard of my change of plans. Nobody knew it
who might have told him. Something may have happened to keep him away.
But no message has arrived, no note, no explanation.
One never can tell beforehand how people will behave. I felt so certain
of him. It did not so much as come into my mind that he could fail. My
last evening—or, at least, he believed it to be my last. And Clarissa
had no more doubt than I had. She said after dinner, "When somebody
turns up, I shall find an excuse for absenting myself." I told her not
to talk nonsense, and she said, "Is it nonsense? My dear, I know what I
am saying. People do not care for witnesses to good-bye scenes."
And he never came. Clarissa began to look surprised: and then she
remarked on his being late, and wondered if the old aunt were keeping
him. And I said nothing: but a kind of cold dread crept over me. And
half-hour after half-hour went by, and still there were no signs of
him, and at last it was hopelessly late.
"Something has prevented him, evidently." Clarissa tried to speak
lightly, but I could see that she was worried. "We shall have an excuse
by the morning post."
I, too, hoped for that. But none came. Not a word has reached either of
us through the whole day.
It is very, very strange. Does he really care so little? And have I
cared too much? It comes over me with a sharp terror. Have I allowed
myself to feel too much? Have I fancied that he meant more than he does
mean?
I thought myself so safe. I felt so certain that I could never repeat
that mistake. I thought I had learnt so severe a lesson in the past.
Has it all been thrown away, and have I made the same blunder over
again? Only this time it would be much worse.
A post-card has come to say that Addie is better, and going on nicely.
It is not at all a bad attack. So I am not anxious about her: and I
cannot get out of my head the strange thought that after all—after all
that has passed, after all that has been said—he should have stayed
away just because of a little rain, or for no reason whatever, from
what he believed to be a farewell call.
_May 16th, Friday._
Mr. Derwentwater has not been; not even to ask whether I have
really gone, or if any one has heard from me since. One would have
expected—but what is the use of expecting anything? It only means
disappointment.
And to-day he will be off himself—at least, I suppose so. He talked
of going. I shall not see him again—till when! I shall not even hear
from him. If he has not cared to write or to send a message these first
days, why should he do so later? I am feeling more and more how utterly
I may have been mistaken in fancying that he cared particularly about
me. Has it really been all along, as I used to declare without truly
meaning it, that he only liked to be with me because I was Millicent's
friend? If it were so—my heart seems to go down like a lump of lead at
the very idea! For if he does not care, I do—oh, so terribly! My whole
life's happiness seems to be just wrapped up in him. I hate and despise
myself that it should be so—if he has not given me reason—and yet I
cannot help it. I can think only of him; nothing but him all day long
and nearly all night long; only of him! And if he is not thinking of
me—. But I do not intend to let myself be sure yet.
Clarissa says nothing much. At first, she remarked on his
non-appearance, and I tried to pass off her words, as if it were of
no consequence. But I know she saw and understood. And now she does
not allude to him, which is not her way, because she is as a rule
outspoken. She is only particularly kind to me, and I wish she would
not be. It makes me more afraid, because I think she sees, and is
afraid. I wish she would behave exactly the same as usual; I wish
everything would go on as if nothing had happened.
_May 17th, Saturday._
Only three days since first I heard of Addie's illness; since I was
so happy! I can hardly believe it. It feels like an age—almost like
a lifetime. The hours will not pass, do what I may. I cannot tell
how to get through them, or what to do with myself. Not that it was
unmixed happiness, even then. But I did think that he cared for me, and
now my hope is broken down; it is all gone. Now I believe him to be
indifferent; and everything else is tiny by comparison. All my worries
about Millicent—what would they matter, if only I could be sure of him?
And yet I know they "do" matter! I know nothing matters more in the
long run than whether one is doing rightly or no.
_May 18th, Sunday._
If I had but gone home when it looked to me like the right thing to
be done! Was it that guidance was sent, and that I would not listen
or obey? For days I had such a strong clear sense in my mind that I
ought to decide on returning to Wayatford. If only I had gone when I
could! Then at least I should not be here now, waiting in vain, hearing
nothing of him.
I wonder if that sort of very clear "ought" in one's mind should be
always invariably followed. It might be a mistaken idea; or, on the
other hand, it might mean direct guidance. How can one tell which it
may be? But something within me says that it can never be rightly
resisted. Better, surely, to obey even a mistaken conscience than to go
against it. I see that plainly enough now. And the worst of the matter
is that I saw it before, if only I would have acknowledged the fact to
myself. Besides, why should my conscience have been mistaken?
It seemed to me at the time as if I could not yield—could not resolve
to do what I believed was the right thing to be done. But I might have
resolved, if I had prayed to be able; and if I was not willing, I might
have prayed to be made willing.
I keep wandering round and round in the same lines, going over and over
the same thoughts.
_May 19th, Monday._
Addie is much better, and is getting on nicely. There is, of course,
still the fear that somebody else may take it, and quarantine has to be
kept up, but that is all.
_Same day, evening._
Another strange thing happened this afternoon. I had been to a shop
just round the corner to get something for Clarissa. She is perpetually
trying now to send me on little errands, and of course I know why, and
it does no good. An omnibus went by, overtaking me, and I happened to
look up. And there on the top, seated with his back towards me, was Mr.
Derwentwater.
I am not mistaken. It was himself. I could not make a mistake, even
though I did not see his face. There was no possibility of a mistake.
He did not see me—at least, not while I was looking. He might have seen
me from behind, and then have turned away on purpose. That thought has
come to worry me since.
So he has not left Town, after all. He has been here all the while. I
wonder if Clarissa knows this. Somehow I cannot help fancying that she
does. I thought I would ask her; but when I got indoors, I had no power
to do so. I dared not trust myself. I have to keep up—I must try to
seem indifferent. But oh, it is hard! Nobody knows how hard.
_May 20th, Tuesday._
Another strange thing! I have had a letter this morning from my mother;
and she actually speaks of Millicent being up in Town last week!
Clarissa insisted on the letter being burnt, as soon as I had read it
through. She is so afraid of infection for the children. I had just to
run my eyes hurriedly once to the end, and then to put it on the fire.
And I was so vexed afterwards not to be able to read it more carefully
a second time.
The idea of Millicent being in London takes me utterly by surprise.
There is no reason why she should not be; only Millicent does not go
about paying many visits like other people. And of course there is no
reason why I should have heard of her coming any sooner than this,
because Millicent and I do not keep up a close correspondence. Indeed,
we have not written to each other for some weeks. But the news came
upon me strangely. I felt bewildered, and I did not quite take in all
that Mother said about it. Clarissa was talking as I read, wanting to
know how Addie was, and telling me to make haste. And then she hurried
and fussed, and would give me no peace till the sheet was burnt.
And as I watched it shrivelling up, the thought darted into my
mind—what if Millicent and Mr. Derwentwater met last week? What if that
was the reason for his never coming to say good-bye? And I would have
given anything—anything—to go through the letter a second time, just to
make sure that I had not missed over some little word which might have
told me more.
I stood by the fireplace in a dream, trying to remember exactly what
my mother had said. Millicent had been to stay—where? Some name was
mentioned, but it would not come back to me, and it will not now. The
Farrars have relatives in London, I believe, though I know very little
about them. But Mr. Derwentwater may know. And what could have brought
her up to Town so suddenly? And is she still here? I "think" Mother
spoke only in the past tense—of a visit last week, not this week—but I
do not feel sure.
And suppose he has seen her! And suppose the old feelings have been
wakened up again! The very idea turned me sick as I stood looking into
the fire. There was a time when I could have been glad to think this;
but not now. Oh, not now.
"What is the matter with you?" Clarissa asked.
I went back to my seat at the table, trying to look as usual. "I am all
right," I said. "Only I think you might let me read Mother's letters in
quiet."
"So I would, if it were not for the children." To herself, I heard the
faintest possible murmur, "That would not turn you so white." But I
paid no attention.
_May 21st, Wednesday._
Another letter, this time from aunt Marian. No allusion in it to
Millicent's London visit, only she speaks of seeing her yesterday
morning; so at all events Millicent is at home again now. But she has
been in Town. That seems certain.
Aunt Marian sends a message from my mother. I am to stay here longer,
if I particularly wish it; otherwise, I am to go back, and to sleep
at aunt Marian's for a few days until our house is counted safe. It
can be whichever I prefer, and whichever may be the most convenient to
Clarissa.
Has Clarissa said anything in writing home which may have suggested
this?
What shall I do? For some reasons I long to get away, and yet there
is the uncertainty. Suppose that he was prevented that evening by
something he really could not help; and suppose that he has not the
least idea of my being still here. It may be so—even now. He may not
have caught sight of me, when he passed on the top of the omnibus. He
may be intending to call one day very soon, and to ask about me. Or—he
"may" mean to run down to Wayatford. In that case, it would be better
if I were there. And yet he is so likely to call here first, and I
might be just gone.
If he has seen Millicent, and if the past is coming up again, my
going or staying can make no sort of difference. But still—still—I do
not know—nobody knows. It is all a mystery. And how to go home, not
knowing—that is the difficulty. It almost seems to me that I cannot do
it, cannot bear it. While I am still here, I feel that perhaps all is
not quite hopelessly at an end. Once back in Wayatford, I shall feel
the whole thing to be over.
I fancied Clarissa would settle the matter by insisting that I must
stay. But when I showed her the letter, she did not; and that has made
me more hopeless than anything else. For she is generally so confident;
and she has been all through so ready to encourage my remaining.
It looks almost as if she knew more than I know. And yet I cannot,
dare not, ask. I cannot trust myself. I am often on the verge of a
breakdown—hardly able to hold myself in.
"What would you like, Rhoda?" she asked.
"I don't think it matters much either way," though I felt that it did
matter.
"I am glad to keep you; no need to tell you so. But for yourself—the
question is, what may be best?"
I found myself saying, almost without intention,—"Perhaps I had better
go."
"Yes, I think so really," she answered, to my surprise. "My dear child,
don't be hurt. I mean for your sake,—not for mine. The longer you stay,
the better, so far as I am concerned. But for some reasons,—it might be
the more dignified plan."
My face blazed; and then all the colour went, and everything seemed
hazy.
"Why—Rhoda!"
"Yes, I dare say,—I don't know,—yes, I'll go," was all I could utter.
Clarissa spoke out suddenly, dropping all pretence at reserve, and
taking it for granted that we both had the same thought in our minds.
"And don't make up your mind too soon. It is best not. He may seem to
us to be behaving disgracefully,—and I am very much afraid that he is
'not' what I have thought him. But all the same, we don't absolutely
know."
One little sentence in her speech seemed to take precedence of all the
rest. I struggled to get out a "Why?"
She repeated the word questioningly.
"Why—afraid?" I had no voice to say more.
"He 'might' have been prevented from calling that evening; one cannot
be sure yet." But I knew that she had something more in her mind.
"Do you think he has left Town?" I asked.
"He meant to do so."
"He has not, and you know it!" I spoke passionately. "Why have you not
told me?"
"Why should I? That of itself proves nothing. My dear, you can only
wait and have patience. It may be a mere passing tangle. Only, perhaps,
on the whole, it is better for you to wait at Wayatford than here. Do
you not think so?"
I could only murmur a "Yes." My voice was all but past control.
"Suppose you take a turn in the Square garden. The air will do you
good, and by-and-by we can discuss plans."
I was glad to rush away and come up here. And I had a hard fight to
keep down the tempest of tears that wanted to have way. But I did
manage to conquer; and I even wrote a line to Mother, saying I would
come home at once. And then I took out my journal and wrote all this.
It seems a relief to write things down. And now I am going out into the
garden, with a book, to try to forget.
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