Chapter XIV: Exceedingly Horrid

_October 24th, Thursday._

TO-DAY, for once, my mother and I have had a quiet talk,—and if I could have guessed what Mother would say, I would have gone anywhere to have escaped it.

But it is all aunt Marian's fault. I shall never never forgive aunt Marian.

An old Indian friend of my father's turned up, and took him off for a long ramble over the hills. And I made Mother lie down on the sofa, to get a little rest. The twins were playing in the tiny back garden, so we could be quiet. I did not mean to talk at all, but she seemed so disinclined to sleep that it was of no use for her to try. A few things were said, nothing particular, and then we were silent again.

And all at once Mother asked—"How did you like this Mr. Derwentwater, of whom I hear so much?"

My face flushed up scarlet, and I would have given anything to run away. But Mother was lying between me and the door, and I should have had to push past her.

"Oh,—I liked him." I tried hard to speak indifferently.

"I do not think you have mentioned his name to me; except, perhaps, in a passing way."

"I dare say not."

"Your aunt speaks of him. In her last letter."

"What does she say?" I asked, rather fiercely.

"She says he was a good deal in and out, while you were at Wayatford, the last fortnight particularly. And she supposes you will have told me all about it—and him."

I did not know what to reply.

"And she mentions that it was he who drove you to and from the ruin, in that excursion, just before you came home . . . Of course you would have told me, only your letter after the picnic was so hurried." Mother spoke as if she were apologising for me.

"Yes. Oh, I didn't seem to have any time." I wished my face would not burn so furiously. "And I was coming home so soon—it didn't seem worth while to write a long letter. And then—when I got home—it was such a bustle—"

"Yes!" Mother spoke quietly, and did not seem to mind, though all the time I had a feeling that she understood perfectly well. "And you found him pleasant?"

"Yes—very—" and I went on working as fast as I possibly could.

"Is he not intimate with the Farrars family? Your aunt used to think that he and Millicent—"

Then my mother knew more than I had supposed.

"I don't think 'that' will ever come to pass," I said hastily.

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I don't believe it will." I was getting redder and redder. "He didn't even think her pretty." After a little break, I could not resist murmuring half to myself,—"'He' did not think I had a pussy-cat face."

"How do you know?"

"I know! One can tell that sort of thing pretty well!"

She drew me on with more questions, letting her hand lie on mine, so that I could not go on working, and I had to attend.

After all, I found it rather a relief to speak out, and to tell her how nice and kind he was, and how lunch I had enjoyed those drives on Thursday, and what fun we had had. And I told her about Millicent watching us, and not seeming in the least to care, and about Mr. Derwentwater meaning to see me again to say good-bye. "Only, it was so tiresome,—he happened to call just when I was out. I should so have liked to see him just once more. He was so nice! Everybody likes him."

"Yes,—he is popular."

"Aunt Marian thinks any amount of him. And aunt Marian is as particular as you are."

"She likes to have young people about her; and she always makes them fond of her. Yes,—and I believe she is fond of him. Whether she has a very high opinion of his character—"

"Oh, I know she has! I am perfectly sure she has."

Mother's next words took me utterly by surprise. "And I suppose, dear,—I suppose it never so much as came into your head that he might be playing you off against Millicent, for a purpose,—that he might be trying to rouse her jealousy by paying attentions to you!"

"Mother!!"

But she repeated,—"I suppose you have never thought of such a thing as a possibility."

"No, I haven't, and I don't!" I declared stormily. "It is not possible, and nothing shall ever make me think it possible. I don't believe it, and I never will believe it. Aunt Marian has been telling you a lot of untruths. I wonder you can listen to her!"

Then I flung my work down, and rushed upstairs to my own room, and locked the door, and cried for a whole hour. Nobody came near me, and I left the rest of the world to take care of itself.

After that, I had to go down; and I did not care in the least how red my eyes were. I thought Mother would see and be sorry. But she was too busy with my father to have any time for me; and the whole evening she has not been free for a single moment. I fancied that perhaps she would come to my room the last thing; but she could not be spared. My father was in one of his most depressed states, tired out, I suppose, with walking too far. She only gave me a kiss, and said nothing. I do not even know how much she has noticed, or how much she knows or guesses.

Now it is past twelve o'clock, and I do not feel as if sleep were a thing possible. I have been writing all this, to pass the time, and to see how it looked.

I don't know what to think or what to believe. The very idea is too dreadful. I cannot and I will not believe such a thing to be true. Nothing shall ever make me believe it.

And yet—what if it were true?

But it is not. I don't believe it. He is not like that.

Mother is not to blame. I am not going to be vexed with her. She only spoke because she was anxious about my happiness. It is all aunt Marian's fault; and I do not mean ever to forgive aunt Marian,—ever to like her again.

Mother spoke of aunt Marian's "last letter." Has she heard again lately? I know she had one letter, soon after I came home. Was that the one, I wonder?

Things seem very horrid, altogether!

_October 25th, Friday._

I did not mean ever to speak again about Mr. Derwentwater to my mother, or to anybody. But nearly all night I was awake, thinking of what she had said; and all the morning I felt so wretched, I did not know how to bear myself. I am afraid I made other people wretched too, though of course I did not mean to do so.

By the end of the afternoon, I could stand it no longer. My father went out to the post; and I was alone with my mother for a few minutes; so I burst out:—

"What made you say that yesterday, Mother?"

"I had reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Perhaps my best plan will be to let you see this letter," and she put one into my hand. It was in aunt Marian's writing. "Read it quietly up in your own room, not down here. I have been debating with myself, ever since it came, whether to show it to you or not."

"Aunt Marian's meddling, I suppose!"

Mother was just going to move away, and she stopped and looked at me.

"No, not meddling! If you take things in that spirit, Rhoda, I shall regret having allowed you to see it. I thought I might treat you as a reasonable woman. You must remember that your aunt was responsible for you while you were there, and also answerable to me. Her reason for writing as she does is simply kind thought for your happiness. She has hesitated long, as you will see, but it did not seem to her right to say nothing under the circumstances. Whatever you may feel, I shall always feel that she was right to speak. Of course I am showing this to you in confidence. Aunt Marian does not forbid my doing so, but you must reckon it all to be confidential."

Then she moved away, and I rushed upstairs—here; and I bolted the door before I would look at the letter.

It is not the one which came directly after I returned home. The date is only four days old.

In the beginning of it there is a good deal about me that is very kind, and even affectionate, hoping that I will go again some day for another visit, and saying how much I am missed, and so on. All that I skimmed, and then I came to the really important part; and I am going to copy it out word for word, so as never to forget. For I mean never in all my life to trust anybody again—never again!

"Rhoda will, of course, have told you about that Thursday excursion just before her return home, and about Ernest Derwentwater driving her in the dog-cart to and from the old ruin. She seemed a good deal excited and flattered—poor little woman!—and I have blamed myself since for want of caution in letting her be quite so much thrown with him.

"You see, I have always looked upon him as pretty well apportioned already, knowing as I do what he feels for Millicent. And Rhoda seems such a child still, one hardly thought of possible danger. The last day or two made me fear that she might be just a trifle touched by his pleasant ways. I am afraid the naughty fellow had a reason for making himself especially agreeable to her on that particular Thursday; and much as I like Ernest, I blame him exceedingly. There is no sort of excuse for him. To play off one girl for the sake of arousing feeling in another is unjustifiable.

"I do not accuse him of this without reason—that would be unjustifiable on my part. When he came to say good-bye, two or three days later, he spoke most despondingly about Millicent's coldness. And I said, 'But you have been comforting yourself with somebody else meantime.'

"He gave a start, and then laughed.

"'Rhoda is pretty, is she not?' I said.

"'Well, yes—perhaps—if she had not such an inordinately good opinion
of herself,' he answered.

"'What made you drive her to the ruin instead of Millicent?' I asked.

"He said, 'Millicent would not show whether she cared a straw which
way she went, or who was her companion.'

"'And so you thought you would stir up a spice of jealousy on her part. You might know Millicent better than to try such a plan. Have you gained any thing by it?'

"He shook his head.

"'No better than you deserve,' I said. 'You had no business to behave in such a way. Just imagine if you had done execution in another direction!'

"'What! That infant!'—and he went off into a peal of laughter.

"I really thought it best to say no more for Rhoda's sake, but to treat the matter as a joke. Otherwise, I would have told him much more plainly what I thought of his conduct.

"Only, poor little woman, it may not be altogether a joke to her; for I am afraid she 'might' have once or twice thought him a little in earnest. You see, she looks younger than she is! After long cogitation and much hesitating, I have determined to tell you all this quite frankly, neither omitting nor softening, and to leave the matter entirely in your hands. If Rhoda seems happy and heart-whole, the less said the better. She will soon forget any tiny fancy she may have felt for that foolish boy. But if you should see her to be dwelling on the recollection of him, and of his smooth speeches, then you will know what is best to be done. Girls are so different. One has to be treated in one way, and another in another way. Make any use or no use of what I have told you—precisely as you think best."

I hardly know what I really felt on first reading this. It was like a kind of white-heat of fury. I was angry with Mr. Derwentwater, angry with Millicent, angry with aunt Marian—almost angry with my mother for showing me the letter—and yet I would not on any account "not" have seen it. I could not have wished to go on in a sort of fool's paradise. It was the horribly mortified feeling that was the worst of all.

For about an hour, I did not know how to bear that. To think that he was all the time just playing with me, just using me for his own convenience, just looking upon me as a silly child—a vain silly stuck-up child! And to dare to say that I had an "inordinately good opinion" of myself!

At first, I stormed about my room like a crazy thing; and I fumed and knocked things over. And then I cried; and then I fumed again. And then I began to think what to do. I wondered what my mother had said in answer to aunt Marian, and as I wondered, she came to the door, and I let her in.

"Would you not like a turn in the garden, Rhoda?" I knew from her face how she had been all the while thinking about me, and longing to come.

"Mother, there's nobody like you in all the world!" I cried, and I clung to her. "And I never mean to love anybody except you! And I never will trust anybody else again—never! Never!"

"Well, there is no hurry, darling. What an untidy room!"

"Oh, I'll put it straight. Mother, what did you say to aunt Marian? You didn't let her think—"

"I did not say much. There was no need. I thanked her for writing openly; and I said that I thought Mr. Derwentwater had behaved very wrongly, but I was glad to be able to say that you had shown no particular interest in him since you came home."

"Oh, that was—splendid!"

"And now—" Mother stopped.

"I think he is perfectly disgusting, and I am never going to like him again. To tell aunt Marian that I am conceited, and have too good an opinion of myself! I am much obliged to him!"

Mother's face broke into a smile of relief.

"That matters very little. People must be free to form their own opinions about others. And if 'that' is all you care for—"

I almost exclaimed, "But it isn't!" And I stopped myself just in time.

"Only, it was so horrid of him to go and make that sort of fuss with me, and to pretend that he liked me so much, when all the time, he just wanted Millicent!"

"Yes, it was horrid of him—but never mind. The thing is over now."

I let her say so, and did not contradict her. She did not ask for the letter, and I kept it, because I wanted to copy out part. I am so afraid I may forget, and may even begin to fancy again that perhaps he really did mean something. And if I just read the words once more when such a feeling comes, they will settle the matter.

But the thing is not "over" yet, as Mother thought. Will it ever be over? I am very angry, very very angry, with Mr. Derwentwater—so angry that I should dearly love to do something to punish him, if only I could. Is that a wrong feeling? And yet—now and then, in the very middle of my anger, his face comes back to me, with that kind pleasant smile, and it seems, oh, it does seem, as if I would give up "anything," just to be in Millicent's place—just to know that he really cared for me, and wanted me to be with him—to be his. But it is nonsense writing all this. I suppose I ought not to let myself even think about him now. I ought to forget his very existence.

Can one do that? Can one make oneself forget?

_October 28th, Monday._

Life looks so awfully flat, so horribly dull! It seems as if nothing were worth doing—nothing worth thinking about. There is nothing to expect—nothing to look forward to! Will it always go on like this? Will nothing ever be bright again?

Sometimes I feel desperately angry still with him, and those are the easiest times to get through. Sometimes I could sit down and cry for hours; and then I have not any spirit to be angry.

Mother is so good and sweet! I know she sees everything, but she does not bother me with questions, or even with seeming to see. I am afraid I have been awfully cross to her and the twins, the last two or three days. It is desperately difficult not to be cross, when everything looks so hopeless. But of course that is no real reason, and no excuse at all. And Mother has enough to bear without that. My father gets worse and worse. I cannot think what we are coming to.

Shall I ever feel again as I used to feel? But, anyhow, nobody must see. Nobody must guess,—except, of course, my mother. I do not think anything would blind her eyes. Nobody else must know!

_November 1st, Friday._

I have come to a resolution! I will stop journalising. When I come to my room, and get out my journal, and begin to write, then things always seem worse, and life looks darker. I am going to be so busy as to leave no time for thinking; and I am not going to open my journal once for at least six months. After that—perhaps—but I shall see! As matters are now, I am sure this will be the wisest. Perhaps in six months, I shall have got a little over this horrible dreary sense of emptiness. Perhaps life will have begun to look a little brighter again. People say that one does in time get over that sort of trouble. I do not know. I cannot "feel" like getting over it!

If only he had not spoken in such a way of me—I do not think I should mind anything else so much, but somehow I cannot get over that. And all the time I cannot help, in a sort of way, liking him still.

And now I am going to stop.

(_For six years no further entries._)