Chapter IX: Suppositions

_July 2nd, Tuesday._

MR. DERWENTWATER spent a long evening with us, and I like him immensely.

It is beautiful to see him with aunt Marian. His manner to her is so gentle, even reverent, and at the same time protecting. He looks so strong and big and full of life, while she is such a little frail crooked thing. But somehow, I do not think he feels that the giving is all on his side, and the receiving all on hers. He watches her face, and listens with the greatest attention when she speaks, not with a put on attentive manner like one going through a tiresome duty, and not even only as any real gentleman would always listen to a sickly elderly woman, but as if he quite loved the sound of her voice, and delighted in what she had to say.

Aunt Marian can be delightful,—I see that. She is clever and quaint, and unlike the common run of people. Before her accident, she must have been wonderfully pretty and taking. I see more and more how clever and bright she still is, but one would hardly expect a young man to see it.

I begin to feel very doubtful and puzzled about his feeling for Millicent. His manner to aunt Marian is so affectionate, so much "more" than his manner to Millicent; and if he were in love with Millicent, how could that be? When I spoke of Millicent to him, and said how fond I was of her already, and how nice she seemed, his face did not light up in the least. He fiddled with a paper-knife on the table, and just muttered a "Yes," and then began upon something quite different.

And yet a little later, when aunt Marian was talking in a low voice, and I had been attending to uncle Basil, I caught the word "Millicent," and I saw Mr. Derwentwater bending forward to listen with such a curious earnest look, as if his whole heart were in what she had to say.

So I cannot at all make up my mind as to how things really are between them.

_July 4th, Thursday._

Mr. Derwentwater came in this afternoon again. He said it was a call upon aunt Marian. But all the same, when he found that she was too poorly to see anybody, he sat down to have a talk with me. And he stayed on and on, for ever so long.

We got upon all sorts of subjects together: books, and places, and scenery, and travelling, and ways of spending one's life. He has plenty to say, and he seems to be able to draw out other people. At least, he certainly drew "me" out. I do not think I ever talked so well in my life. One cannot help knowing if one has talked well. When Clarissa and Juliet are sitting by, ready to criticise everything, it is such a damper; I never can be at my best. To-day I felt quite free, and I said whatever came into my head.

Part of it was nonsense, I suppose, but is there any harm in a little nonsense? Sometimes Mr. Derwentwater laughed; and sometimes he agreed with me, and sometimes he did not. But it was all in such a pleasant way.

At first, I talked about Millicent a little; and he let me do so, and neither helped nor hindered. Afterwards, she seemed to slip out of my mind altogether.

_July 6th, Saturday._

I went to the Rectory to-day, and saw Millicent. And I asked her whether Mr. Derwentwater had been to call, since that time when she and I met him. Of course I did not mean to meddle, and the question was natural enough surely. But Millicent looked up at me, in a kind of astonished way, as if I had been quite impertinent, and made no answer at all.

"He has been to us three times this week," I said.

"Has he?"

"Yes, three times." I do get provoked with her persistent way of hiding from me whatever she feels. And it came over me that I would "make" her show what she felt.

She gazed at me still in that grave slow way of hers, which gives me a kind of abashed feeling, almost as if I were a naughty child. I cannot think why I am so fond of Millicent, when she is perpetually vexing me, but somehow I am.

"He always does," she said. "Mrs. Ramsay is such an old friend of his!"

"Oh, aunt Marian—yes,—of course aunt Marian is an old friend,—and so are you. But 'I' am not."

And then the sound of that "I" came back to me, and I knew how silly it must have sounded.

Millicent laughed quietly. "No,—very new indeed!"

If it had been anybody else, I could have declared that she did not mind an atom. But I am beginning to understand her face, and I noticed a tiny white streak on one cheek. That ought to have warned me to say no more; only it was provoking to see how little she cared to treat me like a real friend. Besides, I did not like to be laughed at by her.

"Of course I don't mean anything particular. I am not so absurd. Only, when he came to call on aunt Marian, she was upstairs, and he stayed for a talk with me. That was all. We had quite a long talk, and I like him very much. And I think you treat him very badly."

"I think you are much too fond of interfering, Rhoda," Millicent spoke in a cold tone. "Once before, I asked you not to chatter in this way; and it seems to have been of no use."

"But, Millicent,—where is the harm?"

"It does not matter whether there is any harm, or no. It ought to be enough for you that I dislike such talk extremely."

And then I came away as fast as I could, and sat down straight to my journal. If Millicent goes on like that, I do not think I shall make a friend of her. How disappointing people are! I did think that for once I had found a friend worth having.

_July 9th, Tuesday._

I suppose that I was rather hasty! I was vexed, and anybody would have been vexed in my place,—because really it was all interest in Millicent, and she ought to have understood. But she is slow in making friends, I suppose; and perhaps she did not quite understand. When I saw her yesterday, she was exactly the same as usual in manner. And though I had meant to be different, I did not keep it up.

But I feel perfectly sure now that Millicent does really care for Mr. Derwentwater and that she is sacrificing herself for her brothers and her father!

Ought she to be allowed? Can nobody do anything?

_July 12th, Friday._

Five whole weeks since I came here! One week more, and I shall have had half of my three months of banishment.

The weeks have gone faster than I expected; and they do not seem long to look back upon. Besides, the last half of a time always slips away much faster than the first half. So it will not really be long now before I get home again.

Home to my mother! That will be the joy of it. I shall be sorry to leave some people and things here, but it will be going home to her.

And I mean to be quite different from what I was before I came away—different altogether. I mean to be utterly unlike my old self. I can see that I was in the wrong, and I mean to change. I am not one of those weak creatures who never manage to carry out a resolution—at least, I am sure I hope not.

Juliet was wrong, and she ought to change too. But, as Millicent says, I have not to do with that. I have not to answer for her, but only for myself. And I do mean to be a comfort to my mother, not to worry and distress her any more. I intend to be like Millicent and to take everything quite calmly and quietly, and to spend all my time for other people. And then perhaps people will love me. I should like to be loved by everybody.

Even if Juliet tells me in her provoking way that I "ought" to do this and that, I intend not to be angry, but just to do it, and not to let myself mind. It isn't really worth while to be so easily vexed, and I begin to see that plainly. So I do think I have learned some wisdom while staying here.

For another thing, I am learning to be more punctual. To be sure, breakfast is a good deal later than at home, and I am not expected to practise before breakfast. I did think at first that I would try to keep it on, because it had been my mother's wish. But I found that the noise at that early hour would try aunt Marian's head very much, so of course I gave it up.

Even though breakfast is not early, I was late one day, just after I first came. And a most polite message was brought up from uncle Basil, to say that I was "not to hurry, because they would all wait." I should think I did hurry then, and no mistake! And when I got down, the whole household was waiting—uncle Basil at the table with the big Bible open, and aunt Marian on her couch, and the servants in a solemn row, all waiting till I should come, before they would begin Prayers. It was rather too awful, and I have managed since then never once to be late. So, at all events, I see now that I "can" be punctual.

Other things have gone pretty smoothly too. I can almost always do what aunt Marian wishes without any struggle. She is so helpless, and so gentle in her ways. I am getting very fond of her; and I would give a good deal to know whether she is really fond of me. But I do not know. She is so kind, always kind; and I cannot tell whether it is only kindness and nothing else.

The one person here who does really provoke me is Millicent; and yet she is the one I care for most of all, in a sort of way. I do not know why I care for her so much, but I do. If a few days pass without my seeing her, I get restless; and yet when I am with her, she provokes me. She is always still so shut-up, and so unlike most girls. And I do not know in the least whether she cares for me either—really caring, I mean—or whether she is only kind, because she wishes to please aunt Marian. I would rather have people kind to me for my own sake, and because they love me, not out of politeness, or from a feeling of duty, or because they want to please somebody else.

Of course aunt Marian is a near relation, and near relations often have to do things from a sense of duty. But Millicent is no relation; and if she cannot be fond of me for my own sake, I would a great deal rather she should leave me alone altogether.

_July 16th, Tuesday._

I had a talk yesterday with aunt Marian about Millicent. It came up naturally; and this time aunt Marian let me say what I wanted to say. She just listened till I had done. I told her how much I had been wondering whether Mr. Derwentwater was in love with Millicent, and whether Millicent was in love with Mr. Derwentwater, and whether there was some difficulty in the way.

"Well?" she said when I stopped.

"Couldn't anything be done, aunt Marian?"

"Done—by whom and to whom?"

"I mean, to put things right for Millicent."

"Are you so sure that things are wrong? My dear, you and I are not Millicent's Providence."

"But if it is only that and nothing else—if it is only that she can't well be spared—couldn't Mr. Derwentwater wait? Or couldn't Mr. Farrars get a good governess, and let Millicent marry?"

"Nothing is easier than for one person to settle another person's duties in life. And the less one knows of another, the easier it becomes."

"I'm sure I don't want to meddle. Only it does seem rather hard upon Millicent."

"You are taking her wishes too much for granted. What do you really know about the matter?"

"I can't help seeing things. And if he cares for her—"

"If he does, and if she does! Two very weighty 'ifs!' And if neither cares for the other?"

"But you see it all, as much as I do," I said, rather positively.

Aunt Marian went on with her work, not answering at once.

"If Millicent were not imperatively needed at home," she said at length, "one might then consider the question."

"But surely," I cried, "oh, surely, Mr. Farrars would not want to spoil her life!"

"Millicent's life will not be spoilt. She will do what she feels to be her duty; and she would not be happy doing anything else."

"Only, Mr. Farrars might make it all easy for her. And if he did?"

"Mr. Farrars cannot change the existing order of things. He might be willing to give Millicent up: and Millicent might refuse to be given up . . . I am merely going upon the general supposition that some day something of the kind that you are suggesting 'may,' sooner or later, turn up . . . Mr. Farrars has not only to think of himself and his own comfort; or only of Millicent's happiness. He has to think of the training of all those children."

"Only if Mr. Derwentwater—"

She would not let me finish the sentence. "We are not speaking about Mr. Derwentwater or about Mr. Anything in particular. Some day, somebody may of course wish to marry Millicent; and it may be somebody whom she could be willing to marry. But the first question with Millicent will be—what is her duty? She will never put aside plain duties, for the sake of her own wishes."

"But suppose it were a question of making somebody else dreadfully unhappy? Suppose it were a question of somebody breaking his heart?"

"Nineteenth century hearts do not break so easily, my dear! People are too busy, and have too many interests, to break their hearts over one unattainable wish."

"Only it might make a person awfully miserable."

"For a time, perhaps. Then he would take to shooting or golfing, and be comforted."

"Aunt Marian, don't you believe in 'any one' having a heart?"

She looked at me in a curious gentle way.

"Yes," she said; "but having a heart doesn't always mean having an easily breakable heart. Millicent has a heart, and a very loving one, but she will never put her heart's longings before her plain duty."

I dare say it is true; true, I mean, that Millicent will always consider duty before love. One can quite fancy it of her. And of course it is all right that she should—only—I don't exactly know what I mean! Only, although of course Millicent "has" a heart, I shouldn't precisely have described it as "a very loving one." Does Millicent love anyone very much indeed? I wonder if she does.

I wonder whether, if I were in Millicent's place, I should do what aunt Marian says, put duty altogether first, quite before love and before one's greatest wishes? Anybody ought to do so, I suppose, but it must be fearfully hard. I mean if one really and truly cared very much, very very much, for somebody else—to have to give him up of one's own free will, just because one was needed somewhere else. I don't believe I could do it! And I don't believe Millicent could, either, "if" she really and truly cared so much for Mr. Derwentwater as I have been thinking that she cared.

I begin to think it must be that. I begin to think that she cannot possibly care for him in that sort of way, but that she only likes him as an old friend, just as a sort of family friend.

Yes, I believe it must be so! I am rather glad to think it, though I do not know why I should be.

At all events, he goes back to London in two days and I am sure he has not seen much of Millicent lately.

_July 20th, Saturday._

Such news! Oh, such news!

Clarissa is engaged to be married.

I have a little note from Clarissa herself, and a longer letter from my mother.

It is a Mr. Griffith, and he has an estate in the north. He has been staying lately at Alverton. He has never seen Clarissa before, until about five weeks ago; and he thinks her the very handsomest woman in all the world, so Mother says. Well, I don't, but I am glad he does. And Clarissa says she is as perfectly happy as it is possible for a woman to be, and I am to write and congratulate her. I can do that, at all events.

The wedding is to take place quite soon, in about six or seven weeks. Shall I go back just in time for the wedding? Or will my mother have me a little sooner, with "this" coming on?

I have never felt certain whether I was to be away only twelve weeks or three calendar months. That would mean not getting home, I suppose, till Clarissa was gone.

Juliet is going too. She will not live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith, but she and aunt Jessie mean to make a home together in the north, somewhere not far from Clarissa's new home.

Mother does not say whether Juliet is going, because of the way I have behaved, but I almost think it must be that. I cannot help being afraid I have brought this on my mother. Otherwise, why should not Juliet live with us still? Unless, indeed, she wishes to be nearer to Clarissa. When I told aunt Marian about it all, I said, "Why should not Juliet live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith?"

But aunt Marian said, "O no, that would never do. It would not be fair upon Mr. Griffith. Newly-married couples are best left to themselves—at all events, for the first few years of their married life."

And I dare say that is true.

I feel quite dazed with it all. The change is so sudden.

My first dread was that Mother would say she must go back at once to India. But she does not. Instead of that, she talks of a little house somewhere, and of hoping to find me a great help and comfort. And she "shall!" I will be her right hand.

Is not this the very thing I have so longed for—just to be in a tiny home alone with my mother and the twins? It does sound like great happiness.

I could not honestly declare that I shall be very sorry to say good-bye to the girls. But still I do wish things had been happier between us. If only Mother would let me go back sooner, so that I might make a difference before they leave us.

_July 23rd, Tuesday._

Another letter from my mother, answering mine. I asked whether she meant me to keep to the time fixed for going home, and this is what she says:—

"About your return. You know that you left home on the eighth of June. I have always had in my mind that day three months for your coming back, or, rather, September the seventh, because the eighth will be on a Sunday."

Then she had looked all this out, and had thought it all over. It seems as if she wanted me. She goes on:

"But the wedding day is now pretty well settled for Wednesday, September 4th; and I think we must have you back on the Monday before. Then you will see something of Clarissa; and Juliet does not leave us till two or three days later."

Is my mother afraid that I should make fusses, if she allowed me to go home any sooner?

But that is not all. In the end of her letter she says:—

"I hope we have found a sub-tenant for this house during the remaining months that it is on our hands. When the girls are gone, it will be too expensive for us. They would not leave the whole expense to me if it could not be let. But since it can be, we are all glad. I have thoughts of a little house in Bath, as house-rent is not high there; and I want you to be able to attend occasional classes, and to keep up your education. I am not very happy about your dear father's health just now, but you shall hear more when I hear again. He is trying to arrange to come home."

Then of course Mother will not have to go out. That is a great relief. Now I feel perfectly happy, and I want nothing else. A home in Bath—beautiful Bath—and friends, and walks, and my mother always at hand, free to have me with her, and the twins, and nobody to fuss or interfere or make me feel cross. How delightful! And how silly it seems that I should have minded so desperately having the girls to live with us, when it was for such a short time. Only of course, I could not tell that the time would be short. If I had known, that would have made all the difference. And it might have gone on for years and years, if Mr. Griffith had not happened to turn up.

And perhaps my father will be with us too. That seems very wonderful. Mother did not think he could come home for ever so long. Of course it will be delightful if he does.

I hardly remember him at all. At least, it is not real remembering. There is a sort of picture of him in my mind. But I think it is partly made up of the photographs of him, and partly of things that Mother has told me. I do not really remember what he looks like.

_July 30th, Tuesday._

I cannot quite understand the way in which Mother writes about my father's health. She does not say much, but she seems so sad, and the word "anxious" comes over and over again. The doctors have ordered him home, all in a hurry, though I cannot make out what for. He has not had fever, at least not lately, or any other particular kind of illness. He may arrive a week or two after the wedding, just when we are settling into our new home.

For the house at Alverton is really let. And now aunt Jessie, who has gone to Bath for a few weeks, is hard at work there, hunting for a tiny house which might do for us. Mother says it is so kind of her to take the trouble. Well, yes, I suppose it is, but aunt Jessie always enjoys managing other people's businesses.