Chapter XXI: Tangled Still

_May 22nd, Thursday._

THINGS are all so changed. Everything is quite, quite different. And I do not feel like the same Rhoda.

It is another earth, another sky, another London! The very sunshine is altered. And all because "I" am so different.

One little hour did it all.

I left my letter to Mother lying on my table,—it was just a scrawl, saying I would go to aunt Marian's to-morrow—and I went downstairs. Perhaps the writing in my journal had been a relief—an outlet to my feelings, instead of tears,—and yet I am sure that I did not feel the worse for it. Clarissa was standing in the hall as I passed. She said, "Not gone out yet?" And then she looked in my face, and murmured, "You poor little thing!"

That finished me off. There are times when one can just keep going, and when the least tiny touch of sympathy turns the scale the wrong way.

I did not say a word in answer, simply because I could not. All the struggle upstairs went for nothing.

I hurried out into the front garden, and slipped away into my favourite corner, a seat amidst clumps of bushes, hidden from everybody. I knew I was pretty certain to find it deserted at that time of the day.

The garden itself was nearly empty, and nobody came near me. I could hardly have been more alone, deep in the country.

I did open my book and try to read, but it was useless. And I tried not to think, but that was no use either, because nothing could stop me from "feeling." If only Clarissa had not said anything!—But that one touch of pity had settled the matter. Tears would not be held back any longer. They came streaming in a kind of slow torrent. I have never cried so before. It was like being held in the grasp of something outside myself; and I had no power to overcome. I could only just hold down the fierce sobs which kept fighting their way up, and I know I did not make a sound; but the tears had their own way. It seemed as if nothing would ever stop them,—as if I must go on crying, crying, until I died.

I do not know in the least how long this had lasted. But suddenly I heard a movement, and though I could see nothing plainly, I had a glimpse of a tall dark figure. And it came and sat down beside me; and a voice that I knew in a moment said,—

"Is something very much the matter?"

I had just been telling myself that perhaps I might never hear that voice again; and hearing it all at once made me worse instead of better. I ought to have stopped crying, and have sat up, and have answered him quietly as if nothing were wrong. I suppose there are people who could have done so; but for me at the moment it was impossible. I could only turn my face away, and the tears came streaming in a faster rush than before, and I was shaking with the sobs that all my strength could hardly hold under.

"Rhoda, what is it?" he asked, in a tone of real distress. I could hear that, though I might have heard nothing else. And he had never called me "Rhoda" before.

But to save my life I could not have spoken a word. I could only manage to strangle down those dreadful sobs.

He was quite silent for some minutes,—I do not know how long. Somehow I got back a little self-control, slowly, as he waited. If he had spoken too soon, he would have set me off again, but he did not, and presently I sat up, and began to feel ashamed.

"Your cousin said something that made me fear all was not quite right. But I did not guess it to be anything so serious as this."

"It—it isn't—" I strove to say. "I'm only—"

My voice broke down again. I knew he was looking at me earnestly.

"But people do not cry for nothing," he said in his gentlest tone. "I mean, they do not cry as you were crying when I first saw you. Something must have happened."

I shook my head.

"No bad news from home?"

I shook my head a second time.

"And nothing wrong in the house here?"

A third time the same reply. I cannot think how I could be so utterly idiotic. It was as good as telling him outright what "was" the matter. If I had had my wits about me, I should have made up some sort of excuse or reason. But between the pain, and the relief, and the bewilderment, and the uncertainty, I had pretty well parted company with my wits.

"Nothing but a fit of depression! Is that all?" Then he asked, "Did you think me very unkind and forgetful not to call and say good-bye, when I had said that I would?"

I had not expected this question. It took me by surprise. I ought to have answered lightly, ought to have told him that of course it was faithless, but quite to be expected, or something of the sort. But the words brought back in a rush the pain with which I had been struggling; and in a moment the passionate crying, only half checked, had me again in its grip. I hid my face anew.

And the next thing I can remember was his arm round me, and his voice calling me "Rhoda!" and his "poor little darling!" And he said,—oh, I cannot repeat his words. I hardly know what he did say, only he blamed himself for having put me to pain. And I know that the whole world was changed for me in a moment, though I could not help sobbing on for very happiness.

Nobody came near us, and we were quite hidden,—at least, I am sure we were, though Clarissa tries to tease me by declaring that the top windows of the Square overlook every corner of the garden. We were alone for one happy happy half-hour. And then he pulled my veil over my face, and led me indoors; and Clarissa found us in the library; and he told her I that had promised to be his.

The only blot on my great happiness to-night is the recollection of Millicent. I am trying not to think of her. Why should I? What is the use of bothering myself? If he loves me, I could not possibly make him love her. All that is over and buried long ago.

Only I do wish that I had never never made her confess to me that she cared for him. If I had not done that, things would now be quite different.

No use thinking about what is past. He loves me, and I love him; and I am perfectly perfectly happy. Life looks so changed—so wonderfully bright!

My letter to my mother did not go off. Another had to be written instead. I shall make no plans till her answer arrives. Anyhow, Clarissa says that of course I must not go back immediately.

_May 23rd, Friday._

A very loving letter from Mother to-day; just what I should have expected her to write, only she seems a good deal taken by surprise. So I suppose Clarissa has not said much in writing home, as I sometimes fancied she might do.

Mother is pleased—at least, I think so. I am not sure. She writes in such a tender anxious way, as if she could not make up her mind—as if she were puzzled. She seems distressed to be shut off from me at such a time. And so am I—only, when I think of going back, there is always the recollection of Millicent.

Was Millicent really in London that week? I mean the week before last? It seems such an immense time ago. Was she truly there, and did she or did she not see Ernest? He tells me to call him Ernest. I have tried just a little to find out, without seeming to do so; but nobody takes the trouble to answer my questions. And I cannot speak of her—of Millicent—to Ernest himself.

I do not yet understand how it was that he did not come in to say good-bye to me that evening, when he thought I was going away the next day. He says he was prevented; and he does not explain what it was that prevented him. I said once that I supposed he was not able to get away in time from the old aunt with whom he was dining, and he made no particular answer. He did not seem interested enough to go on with the subject, and something in his manner kept me from saying any more.

I suppose it was some business affair which he does not care to talk about. Even this happy week I see a look now and then on his face as if something were not quite right—as if something were pressing on his mind. And of course it has to do with business, or he would tell me all about it. A great many men are reserved about business affairs, I believe. I should not have thought Ernest was one of them; but perhaps he is.

If it was business that kept him away, he could not help himself. I do not see why he should not have written to explain; but I suppose he felt sure that I was gone, and so he put off coming, and most likely his idea was to run down soon to Wayatford. But he says very little about what he had meant to do.

It seems as if one never could have anything quite perfect in this life; and I do feel just a little scrap fretted. I cannot understand how things have been, and I do not like the feeling of not understanding. There is a touch of mystery about it all which teases me. If only he explained frankly why he could not come, and said that he did not write because he meant to go down to Wayatford instead, it would all be clear, and I should be satisfied. But he says nothing of the kind. The only time he has brought the matter forward at all was in the garden, when he asked if I had thought him unkind. Since then, if I bring it up, he just makes some little jest, or turns it off. And that looks as if there were something behind which he does not wish me to know.

Am I fanciful? Ought to be able to trust him. But I do like to have things clear as daylight.

I should have expected him to say how sorry he was not to have been able to call that evening. And he does not. He has said nothing of the sort. The most he did say was to ask if "I" had thought him unkind. He did not say that "he" had minded it.

I am vexed with myself for having shown him so plainly what I felt. I cannot think how I could. It makes my face burn like fire when the recollection comes up. If only I had pretended that I was crying about Addie, or about leaving Clarissa to go home! Anything rather than have let him so easily guess the truth! It was so undignified! I would not have believed it of myself beforehand. I do wish I had more control over my moods. Of course I do not want to have said anything untrue; but there are times when a girl must somehow manage to hide something of what she feels, if she has any self-respect.

All these thoughts are worrying me very much. Not when I am with him, but when I am alone. When we are together, I can hardly think of anything except my happiness. When he is gone, I go over all that has been said, and all that has not been said, and make myself miserable.

But still, he loves me. Nothing else matters, in comparison with that. He loves me, and I belong to him; and nothing can separate us now—nothing but death. Not even Millicent! I am so sorry for Millicent. But how could I help it, if he liked me best? And surely he was free to choose!

_May 24th, Saturday._

I have been trying to find out from Clarissa exactly what passed between her and Ernest, when he first arrived that day, before he came to me in the garden. She tried to turn it off with a laugh, but that made me want to know the more.

"Did he explain to you why he had not been to say good-bye? And was he surprised to hear that I was here still? And was he glad?"

Clarissa put up her eyebrows. "My dear, you hear everything now from the fountain-head. What is the use of coming to me?"

I was ashamed to confess that I did not know more. "One likes to have different versions sometimes."

"Not from me, thanks! I never interfere with the versions of people who are engaged."

"But you can tell me what you said to him. It was something that made him expect to find me—"

There I came to a pause. I would not for anything have Clarissa know how he really did find me.

"Well, yes," she answered carelessly. "I told him you had gone out, looking rather miserable. He asked if anything were wrong. I said, 'Nothing much! You had better go and ask her yourself.' And he went."

Was that all that had passed? Clarissa's account sounded innocent, told as she told it. But everything depends upon tone and manner, and she had such an expressive face.

I suppose I looked worried still, for she added, "If I were you, I would not wear myself to a thread-paper about nothing. Men have their own fashion of doing things, and you cannot make them run in your own particular grooves. Take him as he is, and be content, my dear!"

Good advice, no doubt. But what if one cannot? I had a long cry in bed last night, thinking how little I really knew and understood.

And yet he is so good, so kind to me. How foolish I am!

_May 26th, Monday._

No letter from Mother for days. Addie was practically well when I heard last, and disinfection of the house was going on. Why does not Mother write?

_May 27th, Tuesday._

Ernest has just been in—the first time for three days. He was out of Town all Sunday, and when he appeared to-day, he seemed rather hurried, and he said he only had half-an-hour. I dare say it was reasonable enough, but I thought he might have managed differently. I suppose it always seems easier to other people. And I couldn't at once get up my spirits. I had been bothering myself terribly with the thought that perhaps, after all, he had not really quite made up his mind to ask me to marry him, until he found me crying in the garden.

It would be too dreadful to think such a thing seriously, for that would mean that he had been drawn on to speak out of pity! If I really thought it, I do not know what I should do. But even while the notion haunts me, I know quite well that it is all nonsense. And yet, somehow, I cannot entirely get rid of it.

Generally when Ernest is with me such thoughts vanish, and I am perfectly happy. But to-day for once I did not feel so. He had not been for three days, and I suppose the worries had had time to get into fuller swing; and his visit was so short, that I had not dine to get out of the swing. That must have been the reason. I did try to be bright and merry, but I could not feel so. And I saw him glancing at me now and then, as if he were puzzled.

Then some stupid little remark of his made the tears spring to my eyes. There was no real reason, only the tears were all ready, and the least thing was enough to start them. I hoped he would not see, but he did; and he said, "Did I pain you? Really I had no intention." And then he added, with a laugh, "You must not cultivate tear-bags quite so near to your eyes, little woman."

Before I knew what was in my mind, I had flashed out an indignant, "Do you suppose tears are always close to my eyes, because you once happened to find me crying for nothing, like a baby?"

"Was it for nothing?" I suppose the question came involuntarily, but it made me angry—more angry than he has ever seen me, and he looked rather astonished. "Why, Rhoda, what is the matter? What is all this about?"

"If you can laugh at me for crying that day—" I said, almost choked.

"I do not know what can have put such an idea into your head. Nothing was farther from my thoughts. We were not speaking of that day, or of any particular day, were we?"

And I was so vexed with my own stupidity, that I could have burst out sobbing, there and then.

"Come, that is not like my sensible Rhoda," he said, and he stood up. "Hardly worth while, is it, to make much of so little? I am obliged to be off now, but I shall look in again to-morrow, and you will be all right then."

He actually kissed me and was gone, before I could resolve what to say. And I have been dreadfully vexed with myself since. It was so silly. I suppose he hates women to cry, like most men, even though he did actually ask me to marry him while I was crying. But to-day he must have thought me out of temper. I must be careful, and not worry him again.

Heigho! I wish I could forget all the little doubts and fidgets, and just be happy. Why can I not?

_May 28th, Wednesday Evening._

I am at home, suddenly. A telegram came the first thing this morning, before breakfast, telling me of my mother's illness and danger. I was to go home at once, it said,—at once. And of course I came off by the very first train. Nothing else mattered—nothing, compared with the terrible dread that I might be too late. Clarissa spoke of Ernest, and I said, "Oh, tell him anything you like. I can't think of him just now." Clarissa told me I was unnatural; but what did I care.

All through the weary journey I saw nothing but Mother's dear face!

She was not worse when I arrived—only as ill as she could well be. They said the first sound of my voice roused her more than anything else had done; but she might not speak. She might only smile, and let her hand lie in mine.

It is not the fever; it is exhaustion and a chill—congestion of the lungs and complete prostration.

I never shall forget the first going into her room. For some seconds I saw nothing but the dear changed face, and then—then I looked up, and I met Millicent's eyes.

Ever since she was first taken ill, Millicent has been with her, has done everything for her. Until Juliet arrived yesterday, Millicent would not leave her, night or day. So much illness is about just now, that good nurses are hard to find, and Mother seems so to like Millicent's nursing that the doctor does not want a change just yet, till matters are better. Oh, how I do hope and pray that matters soon "will" be better. It frightens me to think how ready Mother is to go. And yet it is "not" always those who are most ready that are first called away, so far as we are able to judge.

Millicent was standing by the bed when first my eyes met hers, pale and quiet and grave, exactly her usual self. But there was a kind of reproach in her eyes, or else I fancied it. Was that only my fancy? It brought back to me the look in her face all those years and years ago, on the day when we went to the ruin, when I thought her eyes reproached me, and when I tried to think there was no reason.

Was there no reason? And is there no reason now?

Did she mean to reproach me, or was it quite unconscious? Does she know anything yet about Ernest and me? Yes, of course; she must have heard of our engagement. Would she reproach me for that? Has she seen him lately?

Strange that these questions should come again to torment me to-night, when my mother is lying between life and death, and when I know down in my heart that nothing, no, nothing, can come nearer to my heart than her great danger. But perhaps I can hardly trust myself to think of her danger, and so these other thoughts come whirling around me. I suppose it was that look on Millicent's face which started them.

I know my eyes dropped before hers, as if I were guilty; and there was a rush of blood to my face, and then I turned cold and queer. Millicent led me from the room, holding my wrist in a firm grasp, and she said, "You must keep up before 'her,' Rhoda. The least agitation might be fatal."

"And you have nursed her!"

"There was no one else at hand. I loved to do it."

Then I was told to lie down, and get some sleep. I did the first; I could not do the second. I think now that I understand the meaning of "coals of fire."

They will let me be in my mother's room if only I promise to be brave.

_June 5th, Thursday._

Each day has been one long battle between life and death. But improvement has begun. The doctor speaks of more than hope.

I thought I knew before how I loved her,—but this has brought home to me more than ever before what she really is. If she were taken, the world would indeed be emptiness! I have wondered, watching beside her, how other things can have seemed so important to me.

And yet, now that she is better, now that day by day anxiety is lessening, I find the importance of other things once more coming to the fore; and the very worries, which I almost fancied could never touch me again, are regaining their old power.

Juliet has taken the day-nursing, mainly, and Millicent the night nursing. Millicent is very good at night-work, and does not knock up easily, they say. I would so thankfully have taken Millicent's place, but they all told me I had not enough experience. And what could I say? I know little of nursing,—and the very best has been needed to bring my mother through.

I shall always now feel that my mother has been given back to me,—first of all, in answer to prayer;—and certainly through the doctor's skill and attention, but also and largely through Millicent's devoted nursing. What a thing for me to know, side by side with what I have been doing to her.

For I feel now that I "have" done it. I have drawn Ernest's heart away from her, when he was still free, and might still have thought again of his early love. I have made that impossible, and have made him care for me instead. And I have done it deliberately,—with my eyes open, even when I thought they were shut,—even while I was telling myself that I would on no account stoop to any such thing.

If I could but undo the past! But how can I? How could I? I am promised to Ernest now, and he is promised to me. Even if I could bear to think of giving him up, for Millicent's sake, I have no right to do so; for his happiness is involved as well as mine, and I have no right to make him miserable. My giving him up would not make him turn to Millicent. It would only break my heart and his; and Millicent would be none the better.

Perhaps I am fancying about her. Perhaps she does not really care. She is so quiet and calm. At all events, I feel that I can do nothing now; it is too late. Awhile ago, I could have taken action—not now!

Mother often looks at me tenderly, lovingly, anxiously, as if she wanted to say something, and hardly knew how. Is she afraid to speak out what is in her mind? Is it anything that would distress me? I have an instinct that she is thinking about Ernest.

But much talking is still forbidden; and exciting subjects are tabooed; and also I am never alone with her for one single instant. Is this managed purposely, I wonder? Years ago I should have rebelled and fought, if I had been treated so; but now I cannot trust myself to do wisely, so is it any wonder if others cannot trust me either.

Now that I am away from Ernest, I realize more than ever all that he is to me. How could I be so foolish those last few days, fancying so many things and even showing temper to him? And how kind he was!