"Ze best I haf."

The admission was made in an accent so coldly hopeless that Bettina, round-eyed, said: "Oh, dear, isn't she a nice friend?"

"She is like ozzers. She is as nice as she can afford." Madame Aurore had recovered her shrill vivacity. She had not, after all, taken to heart my hint about keeping our voices down. "In some parts of ze vorld," she went on, in that raised, defiant note, "you might be quite good for a week; wis luck for a few months; but you could not be good from year's end to year's end."

"Why was that?" Bettina asked softly.

Madame Aurore laughed out. "Ze climat!" she said, in a voice that must certainly have penetrated the next room. "Somesing in ze air." Then lower, with a tigerish swiftness: "I shall not ron ze risk for _my_ liddle gal! _Non!_" She tossed the satin on the machine, thrust it under the needle, and seemed to work the treadle by dint of compressing lips and knitting brows.

Bettina and I agreed we would not talk to her any more about her daughter, since, unlike most mothers, the thought of her child did not soften Madame Aurore, but made her hard and angry.

We put this down to wounded feelings at my mother's curt dismissal of the theme.

Surrept.i.tiously--for she knew leave would be refused--Bettina gave Madame Aurore some of our old toys, and other little gifts, to take home to her daughter.

I did not prevent this, for I, too, felt uneasily that we ought somehow to make up for our mother's nervous detestation of Madame Aurore.

Had this, as the little dressmaker hinted, something of sheer sickness in it--an invalid's caprice? Bettina said lightheartedly: "Oh, it's only because Aurore is a foreigner. Mother admits she never did like foreigners."

After the first day there was almost no personal interchange between Madame Aurore and her employer. Yet I had a queer feeling that a silent drama was being played out between those two who, without meeting, were acting and reacting upon each other.

Madame Aurore asked each day, How was madame? in a voice of extremest solicitude--nay, of gloomiest apprehension.

I found myself wrestling with an uncomfortable feeling that this hopeless view of my mother's health was somehow prompted by a desire "to get even" with the one unresponsive member of our little circle--to get even in the only way open to Madame Aurore. I knew she advised the housemaid to look out for another place, and offered to find her one in London, where she would be paid double, and have almost nothing to do.

The housemaid was greatly tempted, but I was told she said she wouldn't go till her mistress was better.

"Bettair! She vill not last a mont!" said Madame Aurore.

At first such echoes as reached me of these prognostications made me merely angry. But I could not quite cast them aside. I began to wonder miserably if there were anything in this view. After all we, too--even Eric--had held it ourselves, only such a little while before!

I wrote to Aunt Josephine to say that if my mother were not better by Monday morning, I should bring Bettina as arranged; but I would stay only one night and go home the next day.

The question rose on Friday as to whether Madame Aurore should return to London on Sat.u.r.day night, or some time on Sunday.

"Sat.u.r.day night," said my mother with decision.

Bettina ventured to urge the Sunday alternative. "The poor little thing is so tired after sewing all day----"

To which my mother responded by ordering the cart for Sat.u.r.day evening.

"I cannot sleep with that woman in the house."

Bettina ran in to say Madame Aurore was ready to say good-bye. To our embarra.s.sment, our mother would not permit Madame Aurore to enter the room, even for the purpose of taking leave.

We went out and did what we could to soften the refusal. "She has not been sleeping...." "She is trying to rest...." "She is so much obliged to you...."

Ah, Madame Aurore understood. Our poor, poor mother was undoubtedly failing. We were adjured to take every care. Certainly we should not both leave the poor lady.

We told Madame Aurore that we should never forget her. "I shall take good care of the address," Bettina said.

No, Madame Aurore would send us a new address. She was looking for larger rooms. She believed she was going to be stronger now. She meant to take on two or three hands. In that case, she would not be able to go out any more to people's houses. She would let us know....

She filled the hall with her patchouli and shrill vivacity, and presently was gone.

When we went back into my mother's room, we found her telling the housemaid to hang our gowns in a draught "to purify them."

Betty was moved to some final remonstrance.

My mother cut her short: "That was a horrible woman!"

"Well, well," I said, "she's gone."

"Yes. That is the best that can be said of Madame Aurore. We are done with her for ever."

CHAPTER XXV

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.