Chapter XIX: And Yet!

_May 5th, Monday._

CLARISSA was pouring out tea this afternoon, when a front door bell rang, and she said,—

"Mr. Derwentwater, I suppose."

I was angry with myself, for I knew my colour went up, and I knew she saw it.

Instead of Mr. Derwentwater, it proved to be only a note; nothing in particular.

"So I was wrong for once," she observed, smiling. "A natural mistake. He has not been to-day."

"Clarissa! As if he came every day!"

"Not quite every day," she answered tranquilly. "Only about five times in seven days."

"There has always been something—"

"My dear, if a man wishes to do a thing, does he ever fail to find 'something' by way of a reason?"

"Of course he thinks yours a pleasant house to come to."

"Of course he does—when somebody is here. He never did before."

This would not do at all. I was getting much too red to be comfortable, but I put down my work, and faced Clarissa.

"It is quite a blunder of yours," I said; "altogether a blunder. It is not in the very least as you think. Please don't say such things."

She laughed quietly, with a sound full of meaning in her laugh.

"Please don't. You really are mistaken! I know what I am saying. I know a great deal more about him than you do. And I know why he likes to come."

"So do I, my dear! An old fancy revived, isn't it?"

The words took me by surprise. I had no idea that she knew so much.

"Sisters hear everything of course." She read my face in a moment. "And we are like sisters. Don't be vexed. It is only natural. Of course I know; and of course I understand."

"But you don't! You don't know or understand in the very least. It is not 'me.' It never was 'me.' It is somebody else. You don't know anything about that; and I do. I can't tell you particulars. But I assure you it is only because I know somebody else, and because he likes to come and talk over old days."

"If so, more shame for him!" Then another laugh. "My dear child, you have an extraordinary and romantic belief in masculine constancy. That is clear."

Did I really, down in my heart, believe what I said?

"I can't tell you more. I can't explain. But if you knew—"

"I know all about that old affair. Millicent Farrars you mean, of course. He was a good deal in love with her, off and on, I believe, years ago; on, when they were together; and off, when he happened to come across a prettier face elsewhere. A thing he might easily do, since at her best, she never was pretty. You need not flame up so fiercely. I am not blaming him particularly. He is a man; and in those days, he was a very young man. He isn't young now—to the same extent. And he is exceedingly agreeable. But as for Millicent Farrars, you had better give up that notion once and for all."

"What notion?"

"That Mr. Derwentwater is in love with her. It is an error. He was once, perhaps—or at all events, he thought himself so, which comes to much the same thing for the time. Since then he has been engaged, and he would have been married, but for the girl's death."

"People sometimes go back to an early love."

"Very occasionally, perhaps. Mr. Derwentwater will not go back to his early love for Millicent Farrars."

She spoke in a meaning voice, and it seemed to bring back that look of his on Thursday, which at the time I did not understand, and which I do not now understand. And my heart began thumping again, and a sound like singing wine into my ears. But I would not be beaten. I said resolutely,—

"I believe he 'will!'"

Clarissa looked me all over.

"The child is actually trembling." And she came and sat down by my side. "You dear little goose! As if you or I could control Mr. Derwentwater's likings."

"Of course nobody can. But I do hate to have silly ideas put into my head. And if you knew Millicent as I do—how good and brave she has been, and how she refused him, just for the sake of her father and brothers—"

"And how much she cares for Mr. Derwentwater still, do you mean, Rhoda?" I would not answer. "Well, take care! If 'I' were Millicent, I should not like to have my name thrust forward where it might be unwelcome, or even where it might be received with indifference. Nor should I like to have the suggestion made that perhaps I cared for him still, when he had left off caring for me. One woman ought to be the guardian of another woman's secret in such a case. You should be careful. To my mind, it is very clear whom Mr. Derwentwater is disposed to like at this present moment! . . . Any number of girls may refuse him if they choose,—supposing that he asks them. But fifty refusals would not drive him to seek Millicent, if he cares for her no longer."

"He could not be so fickle—"

"Fickle! The man asked her to marry him, and she declined. She was free from that hour, and so was he. My dear, you can't change nature. There 'are' men, no doubt, who would have waited for her through any number of years, and who would have taken her in the end, no matter how much she might have gone off. Don't be angry; she 'is' gone off, and there is no denying it. And Mr. Derwentwater would be the first to perceive the fact. And he is not one of those men who can wait interminably. It is not his nature."

"A nice look-out for his wife, if he ever gets one,—unless he finds somebody who never can become 'passée.'"

"That is a different matter altogether. When once she is his wife, she becomes useful and necessary, and he learns to value her for something more than a pretty complexion or a dainty nose. Romance passes then into prosaic everyday life."

"You are enough to keep one from ever marrying!" I exclaimed.

Whereat she kissed me, and replied, "Don't be a little goose, my dear. And don't distress yourself because I have talked nonsense."

Did she mean it or any of it as nonsense? I made my escape, and had a cry upstairs—what about I could not have told, and I am sure I cannot tell now.

_May 7th, Wednesday._

My visit has lengthened out so much that Mother wants me at home again. Juliet goes to aunt Jessie next week, and then I shall be really needed. But Clarissa will not hear of my leaving before the 15th.

Ought I to insist? I cannot see ahead; but it seems to me that I am in a strong current which is carrying me on. Ought I to get out of it and refuse to be carried any farther? Can I resist if I stay here? Is Clarissa right, and is there no need to resist?

I begin to know now at least "what I wish." But there is the thought of Millicent. Ought I to let myself be drawn on?

And what if it all means really nothing? How can I be sure? I seem to be sure of nothing. It is all bewilderment.

He came yesterday to dinner, and again to-day to tea. Either Clarissa asks him, or he makes some excuse. And—I cannot help enjoying the intercourse. I cannot "help" believing in him.

It seems as if he liked me to talk about Millicent; yet is it for her sake? That is the question which I cannot answer. It may be, or it may not be. How can I tell?

If only I were at home—not here—with Millicent at hand. I should not then feel as if I were wronging her so fearfully. It would all be open, and in her sight. Nobody would be deceived or taken in. Now it is all going on, away from her, out of her sight; and she not knowing, not dreaming.

If only I had never made her tell me that she cared for him! Things would be so different then.

Why should I not decide to go home this week—at once? My mother would be delighted, and Clarissa could not prevent me. She could not prevent it, if my mind were made up.

There is no reason why I should not—except that I cannot. My mind is not made up, and I cannot make it up. I seem to have no power to "will" it.

If I went, that would put things right. If he cared truly for me, he could come after me. There would be nothing to hinder him. But does he care?—That is the question. I cannot tell; I do not know. My going might make all the difference. I mean, if he is not quite sure, it might help him to forget, and be the ending of all. That is what I ought to wish, for Millicent's sake, but, oh, I do not wish it! I cannot wish it. I dread any such ending. I only do not wish to have seemed to do anything underhand towards poor Millicent.

Somehow I cannot resolve to take the one step which might put things straight! It might not; yet I wish I could resolve to take it: and I am not able.

I do not let myself think—hope—expect; but all the while I know I am doing it. I cannot hide any longer from myself what he is to me. If he is in the room, I see everything he does; I seem to feel even what he is thinking. When he is away, all looks blank. Is my whole life to be blank for the want of him?

For Millicent's sake!

Oh, if only I did not know!!

Lately I was wishing so much to live a life of self-sacrifice. It seemed then all easy and beautiful. But now I see the difficulty. It would be like rending myself in half to give him up! Give him up! How can I tell whether he really wants me? I only know that if I had the choice, I could not do as Millicent once did. I could not. I could not.

Am I then utterly weak and selfish?

_May 10th, Saturday Evening._

Still here, and still drifting on! Every hour fighting feebly, but feeling myself powerless. Yesterday I actually wrote a note, telling my mother I would come home to-day. I addressed and stamped it, and left it in my room. Then Mr. Derwentwater came in; and when he was gone, I threw my letter on the fire, stamp and all. I "could not" send it off.

Clarissa is so pleased and satisfied. And I am neither. At times there is a great joy in my heart; and at other times when I think of Millicent, I am wretched.

It is not that I think Mr. Derwentwater is not free, perfectly free. How could he be anything else? It is only a feeling, which I cannot put aside, cannot get over, that I am wronging Millicent. Knowing all I do know, it seems to me as if this state of things ought to have been an impossibility. And it has not been. I am angry with myself, while yet I cannot for a moment wish anything to be different. If only I could have let Millicent know but how can I? It is only feeling, not certainty. I have nothing yet really to build upon. Only I think—I do think—I believe he likes me. Is "like" the word? But what will Millicent say, when she hears,—if it ever comes to anything, and she does hear?

At present, they know nothing at home. Even my mother does not guess. I have said nothing, and I know Clarissa has not. She is much too anxious not to "spoil" what she calls "the march of events."

I think I know why I am unhappy. It is because, looking back, I feel that I have not been perfectly true to Millicent. Not perfectly true, I mean, to her cause. I have not done my very best, as I said to myself that I would do, to win him back to her. I have tried hard to make myself winning and pleasant; and the more I saw he liked me, the more I have tried. And when I have talked about her, it has only been as a sort of salve to conscience, done in such a way as to make him think of me, not of her.

Yes, I see it all now. I would not let myself see it before. And I despise and hate myself for it; yet still I go on. There seems to be no way of drawing back.

It may be too late. If the mischief is done, I cannot expect to undo it. Drawing back then would only make him unhappy, and would not make Millicent happy.

But if not, if it is not too late, if he is still wavering—and how can I tell that he is not?—ought I not to act? Ought I not to go home at once, and so give Millicent a chance? That at least would leave him time to think. He might find then that this is only a little passing fancy, and that his real love all the time is for Millicent.

O no, no, how can I wish it? How can I bear to think of such a thing?

But if it is right; if I ought—for Millicent's sake?

Well, I almost think I will do that. Yes, I will go home on Monday instead of Thursday. I will write, and tell my mother to expect me; and then I will tell Clarissa that it is all settled, and that she need not say one word, because it has to be.

_May 12th, Monday Evening._

I have not gone home. I did post the letter; and then I told Clarissa, feeling very wretched, and she laughed at the idea, and I gave in quite tamely, without a struggle. And a second letter was posted, telling my mother that I would keep to the original plan.

So my resolution has failed, and I know that I have been beaten in the light. For though it may not be exactly wrong to stay, yet I do think that it would have been better and braver to go home.

It is a terrible thing that one should have this power of choosing for oneself; that one should be perfectly free to go or not to go, when so much of other people's happiness may hang on what one decides, and yet that one's will should be paralysed.

Is it really paralysed? If I prayed to be able to act—but I do not "want" to go home. I do not "want" to be able to decide just in the face of my own wishes. I only want not to have an uneasy conscience about Millicent.

He has not been in to-day, and that makes me glad that I am not going yet,—for it might have meant not seeing him again.

_May 14th, Wednesday._

I am not to go home! The matter is taken out of my hands. Addie has sickened with scarlatina; and I am told to stay here.

If I had gone earlier, as I thought of doing, I should be there, on the spot, able to help my mother. Now she is alone, for Juliet had left just before Addie fell ill. And Mother will not hear of any one going now, because of the infection. What if Emmie takes it too? She is so delicate.

Mr. Derwentwater is coming in this evening, to say good-bye, because he expects me to be off to-morrow; and he said yesterday that he should be off himself on Friday. I do not know where he is going. Will he keep to the plan?

Clarissa is glad that I am not off so soon. But I have no gladness. I am anxious about mother and the twins, and I cannot think happily of Millicent, and I feel like a soldier who has turned his back on the enemy. Is it not something like that? How differently I should feel, if I were at home, if I had followed that voice in my heart, which told me I "ought" to decide and to go. If only I had done so!