He went to Miss Griffin in the morning in almost convalescent calm, prepared to live his life without hope or eagerness. She came into the hall to meet him, wishing to see him without Sarah, as her sympathy with curiosity did not lessen the trial of response.
‘Oh, it was everything to be warm and safe. I shall never forget that waiting in the cold. I don’t know what would have happened if you had not come.’
‘What would you like to do now? And in the future?’
‘I should like to get away from Miss Seaton,’ said Miss Griffin, meeting his eyes in simple acceptance of his knowledge. ‘It seems a dreadful thing to say after all these years, but every year seems to make things worse. I should like to have some peace and some ordinary life like other people, before I get old.’ Her voice broke and her eyes filled, both actions so simple that she did not heed or disguise them. ‘I don’t feel I want to have had nothing: it doesn’t seem right that anyone should go through life like that. You only get your life once. Of course, if people were fond of you, that would be enough; but Miss Seaton seems to hate me now, and I don’t know what to do to make it different. I only want to be peaceful somewhere, and not always driven and afraid, and to be able to do something for someone else sometimes.’ Her eyes went round the hall as if its narrow comfort satisfied her soul.
‘You would like a cottage of your own, and a little income to manage it on, and perhaps a friend to live with you, who needed a home.’
‘Oh, I know two or three people,’ said Miss Griffin, in gladness greater than her surprise. ‘I could have them in turn to make a change for me and for them. Oh I should like it. But I don’t know why you should do as much for me as that.’ Her voice fell more than her face. She depended on Dudley’s powers, and would have liked so much to do this for someone, that she hardly conceived of his not feeling the same.
‘I shall like to do it, and I can do it easily. I shall be the fortunate person. We will arrange for the money to come to you for your life. I shall not be living here, but that will make no difference.’
Miss Griffin hardly heard the last words. She stood with a face of simple joy. She believed that Dudley would not miss the money, would have been surprised by the idea of his doing so, and saw her life open out before her, enclosed, firelit, full of gossip and peace.
‘What will Miss Seaton say?’ she said, in a tone which was nervous, guilty, triumphant, and compassionate. ‘Well, she will soon get used to it and settle with someone else.’ A spasm crossed her face but did not stay. She had been tried to the end of her endurance, and knew that she could not continue to endure. ‘Perhaps you could come and tell Mrs Middleton. Then I need not talk about it, and other people will hear.’
Sarah was startled, incredulous, rejoiced, desirous that Miss Griffin should have enough for her ease, anxious that she should remain a much poorer person than herself, relieved when it was apparent that she would; and betrayed her feelings partially to Dudley and completely to Miss Griffin, without surprising or estranging either. Miss Griffin’s thought followed hers. She did not want a whit more than she needed, felt that the money would have more significance if every coin had its use, looked for the pleasures of contrivance, and allowed for a touch of laxness in herself, which Matty had combatted with bitterness, with an open self-knowledge which to Sarah was sensible, and to Dudley comic and touching. She did not stress her gratitude, almost betrayed a faint sense of envy of anyone who could give so much without sacrifice. If she had not forgotten the offer of marriage, she behaved as if she had, and he saw that in effect they would both forget it, that she saw it simply as an impulsive offer of rescue. If she divined that it had some root in his own life, she saw the life as too far removed from her own to be approached.
Dudley left her with the natural sense of elation, and as it fell away, walked on with the single intention of going further from his brother, thinking and caring for nothing beyond.
Chapter 9
Edgar and his wife were left looking at each other. Maria was the first to speak.
‘We must go on as if nothing had happened. We could not help it. I do not think we could. We might have seen it had to come. But I thought it would not come, with Dudley. Did you think that?’
‘I thought it,’ said Edgar, hardly parting his lips. He was summoning up his brother’s experience, grasping at its meaning as his brother had lived it. He had taken from him the thing he had asked, taken and held it for himself, and let him move aside to walk alone, but near him that he might give his support. The demand was exposed, and he felt that he could not believe in the sight. Maria saw that it was useless to be with him, that each was alone.
By common consent they remained apart that night. When they met in the morning they felt it was a new meeting, that it came after a sudden separation and brought them to a new future. It almost made a fresh bond between them, giving them a common knowledge out of all they knew.
‘Well, this is a sobering morning,’ said a voice, which seemed to be neither Aubrey’s nor Justine’s, but was really the former used in imitation of the latter. ‘But we shall be stimulated by it. We must live in Father’s life and not allow ourselves to cross the bound. I will take it all at one fell swoop and lead the way into the room.’
‘You both look tired after your long day,’ said Mark.
His father felt that his words should cover that part of the day he did not know.
‘Maria is tired,’ he said.
‘She will soon be rested in her own home,’ said Justine. ‘I already enjoy a personal sense of relief. I am a mere unimportant child of the house again.’
‘Will you wait breakfast for Mr Dudley, ma’am?’ said Jellamy.
‘No. He is not coming back so early.’
‘Where has he gone?’ said Clement.
‘Away for a time, I am afraid,’ said Edgar. ‘He felt he wanted a change. I fear that he found the sight of the two of us together too much.’
‘Well, I think it is a thoroughly good idea,’ said Justine at once. ‘Uncle has been attempting altogether too much of late. He can’t go on being superhuman. Even he is subject to the rules of mortal life. I wanted to suggest his having a break, and would have done so if I had dared.’
‘He has done his duty in giving you a welcome, and feels he is free,’ said Mark, realizing the false impression he gave.
‘He has taken no luggage, ma’am,’ said Jellamy.
‘And does that prevent your bringing in the breakfast?’ said Edgar.
‘He will be sending for what he wants, I expect,’ said Maria. ‘He had to get away at once. Yes, bring in the breakfast.’
‘I thought it might imply that he would be back this morning, ma’am.’
‘You heard that he was not coming back,’ said Edgar.
‘Bring in the breakfast, Jellamy, and make no more ado,’ said Justine. ‘You will forgive me, Maria; the words slipped out. I can’t keep my tongue from leaping out at that man sometimes.’
‘I feel with Jellamy,’ said Mark to Clement, as they followed the others to the table. ‘He wants to know why Uncle has suddenly gone, and so do I. And the luggage is a point. Either he is coming back at once or he has left in storm and stress.’