Book III: Rose and Henrietta

-- 1

Early one October afternoon, Rose Mallett rode to Sales Hall. She went through a world of brown and gold and blue, but she was hardly conscious of beauty, and the air, which was soft, yet keen, and exciting to her horse, had no inspiriting effect on her. She felt old, incased in a sort of mental weariness which was like armour against emotion. She knew that the spirit of the country, at once gentle and wild, furtive and bold, was trying to reach her in every scent and sound: in the smell of earth, of fruit, of burning wood; in the noise of her horse's feet as he cantered on the gra.s.sy side of the road, in the fall of a leaf, the call of a bird or a human voice become significant in distance; but she remained unmoved.

This was, she thought, like being dead yet conscious of all that happened, but the dead have the excuse of death and she had none; she was merely tired of her mode of life. It seemed to her that in her thirty-one years the sum of her achievement was looking beautiful and being loved by Francis Sales: she put it in that way, but immediately corrected herself unwillingly. Her att.i.tude towards him had not been pa.s.sive; she had loved him. She had owed him love and she had paid her debt; she had paid enough, yet if to-day he asked for more, she would give it. Her pride hoped for that demand; her weariness shrank from it.

And he had kissed Henrietta. The sharpness of that thought, on which from the first moment on the stairs she had refused to dwell, steeling her mind against it with a determination which perhaps accounted for her fatigue, was like a physical pain running through her whole body, so that the horse, feeling an unaccustomed jerk on his mouth, became alarmed and restive. She steadied him and herself. A kiss was nothing --yet she had always denied it to Francis Sales. She could not blame him, for she saw how her own fastidiousness had endangered his. He needed material evidence of love. She ought, she supposed, to have sacrificed her scruples for his sake; mentally she had already done it, and the physical refusal was perhaps no more than pride which salved her conscience and might ruin his, but it existed firmly like a fortress. She could not surrender it. Her love was not great enough for that; or was it, she asked herself, too great? She could not comfort herself with that illusion, and there came creeping the thought that for some one else, some one too strong to need such a capitulation, she would have given it gladly, but against Francis, who was intrinsically weak, she had held out.

Life seemed to mock at her; it offered the wrong opportunities, it strewed her path with chances of which no human being could judge the value until the choice had been made; it was like walking over ground pitted with hidden holes, it needed luck as well as skill to avoid a fall. But, like other people, she had to pursue her road: the thing was to hide her bruises, even from herself, and shake off the dust.

She had by this time reached the track which was connected with so much of her life, and she drew rein in astonishment. They were felling the trees. Already a s.p.a.ce had been cleared and men and horses were busy removing the fallen trunks; piles of branches, still bravely green, lay here and there, and the pine needles of the past were now overlaid by chippings from the parent trees. What had been a still place of shadows, of m.u.f.fled sounds, of solemn aisles, the scene of a secret life not revealed to men, was now half devastated, trampled, and loud with human noises. It had its own beauty of colour and activity, there was even a new splendour in the unenc.u.mbered ground, but Rose had a sense of loss and sacrilege. Something had gone. It struck her that here she was reminded of herself. Something had gone.

The larch trees which had flamed in green for her each spring were dead and she had this strange dead feeling in her heart.

She saw the figure of Francis Sales detach itself from a little group and advance towards her. She knew what he would say. He would tell her, in that sulky way of his, how many weeks had pa.s.sed since he had seen her and, to avoid hearing that remark, she at once waved a hand towards the clearing and said, 'Why have you done this?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'To get money.'

'But they were my trees.'

'You never wrote,' he muttered.

She made a gesture, quickly controlled. Long ago when, in the first exultation of their love and their sense of richness, they had marked out the limits of their intercourse, so that they might keep some sort of faith with Christabel and preserve what was precious to themselves, it had been decided that they were not to meet by appointment, they were not to speak of love, no letters were to be exchanged, and though time had bent the first and second rules, the last had been kept with rigour. It was understood, but periodically she had to submit to Francis Sales's complaint, 'You never wrote.'

'So you cut down the trees,' she said half playfully.

'Why didn't you write?'

'Oh, Francis, you know quite well.'

He was looking at the ground; he had not once looked at her since her greeting. 'You go off on a holiday, enjoying yourself, while I--who did you go with?'

'With Henrietta,' Rose said softly.

'Oh, that girl.'

'Yes, that girl. But here I am. I have come back.' She seemed to invite him to be glad. 'And,' she went on calmly, feeling that it did not matter what she said, 'what a queer world to come back to. I miss the trees. They stood for my childhood and my youth; yes, they stood for it, so straight--I must go on. Christabel is expecting me.'

'She didn't tell me.'

'No?' Rose questioned without surprise. 'I suppose I shall see you at tea?' she said.

He nodded and she touched her horse. Something had happened to him as well as to her and a ma.s.s of pain lodged itself in her breast. He was different, and as though he had suspected the weary quality of her love he had met her with the same kind, or perhaps with none at all. A little while ago she was half longing for release from this endless necessity of controlling herself and him; from the shifts, the refusals and the reproaches which had gradually become the chief part of their intercourse; and now he had dared to seem indifferent, though he had not forgotten to reproach! She could almost feel the healthy pallor of her face change to a sickly white; her anger chilled and then stiffened her into a rigidity of body and mind and when she dismounted she slid down heavily, like a figure made of wood.

The man who took her horse looked at her curiously. Miss Mallett always had a pleasant word for him and, conscious of his stare, she forced a smile. She had not ridden for weeks, she told him; she was tired. He was amused at that. She had been born in the saddle; he remembered her as a little girl on a Shetland pony and he did not believe she could ever tire. 'Must be something wrong somewhere,' he said, examining girth and pommels.

'It's old age coming on,' Rose said gravely.

He thought that a great joke. He was twice her age already and considered himself in his prime. He led the horse away and Rose went into the house.

How extraordinarily limited her life had been! It had pa.s.sed almost entirely in this house and Nelson Lodge and on the road between the two. Of all her experiences the only ones that mattered had been suffered here, and they had all been of one kind. Even Henrietta's fewer years had been more varied. She had known poverty and been compelled to the practical application of her wits, she had baffled Mr. Jenkins, she had been kissed by Francis Sales.

Rose stood for a moment in the hall and looked for the mirror which was not there. She did not wish to give Christabel Sales the satisfaction of seeing her look distraught, but a peep in the gla.s.s of one of the sporting prints rea.s.sured her. Her appearance almost made her doubt the reality of the feelings which consisted of a great heat in the head and a deadly cold weight near her heart and which forced these triumphant words from her lips--'At least Henrietta has never felt like this.'

She entered Christabel's room calmly, smiling and prepared for news, but at the first sight of the invalid, lying very low in her bed and barely turning her head at the sound of the opening door, she thought that perhaps Christabel's weakness had at last overcome her enmity.

'I'm very ill,' she said faintly.

'I'm sorry.'

'Oh, don't say that. You may as well tell the truth--to me.'

'Then I must say again that I am sorry.'

'I wonder why.'

To that Rose made no answer, and before Christabel spoke again she had time to notice that the cat had gone. She breathed more easily. The cat had gone, the trees were going and Francis was going too. Suddenly she felt she did not care. The idea of an empty world was pleasant, but if Francis were really going, the cat might as well have stayed.

'Tell me what you did in Scotland,' Christabel said.

'I showed Henrietta all the sights.'

'Oh, Henrietta--she's a horrid girl. She has stopped coming to see me.'

'You made yourself so unpleasant.'

'Did she tell you that? Do you think she told Francis?'

'I know she didn't.'

'But I can't make out why she should tell you.'

'Henrietta and I are great friends.'

'How did you manage that?'

'I don't know,' Rose said slowly. 'What has happened to the cat?'

'It's gone. It went out and never came back.'

'How queer.'

'Some one must have killed it.'

'I don't think so,' Rose said thoughtfully. 'I think it decided to go.

I'm sure it did.'

'What do you mean? What do you mean?' Christabel cried. 'Had you something to do with that, too?'