“I won’t stay to-day,” Rose said. She was shaking with the anger she suppressed.
“But if you don’t,” Christabel cried, “he’ll want to know why. He’ll ask me!”
Tears came into Christabel’s eyes. “You might at least do that for me.”
The sternness of Rose’s face was broken by an ironic smile. “Of course! If you are sure you want me!”
She went downstairs and, as usual, Francis was waiting for her in the matted hall. He did not greet her with a word or a smile. He watched her descend the shallow flight, and together they went down the passage to the clear drawing-room, where the faded water-colours looked unreal and innocent and ignorant of tragedy.
“Nothing.” She looked into the oval mirror which had so often reflected his mother’s placid face. “My hat’s a little crooked,” she said.
He laughed without mirth. “Never in its life. Has Christabel been worrying you?”
“Yes, it’s damnable, but she does worry one—and you look odd.”
“I’m getting old,” she murmured, not seeking reassurance but stating a fact plain to her.
“You’re exactly the same!” he said. “Exactly the same!” He swept his face with his hands, and at that sight a new sensation seized her delicately, delightfully, as though a firm hand held her for an instant above the earth, high in the air, free from care, from restrictions, from the necessity for thought—but only for an instant. She was set down again, inwardly swaying, apparently unmoved, but conscious of the carpet under her feet, the chairs with twisted legs, the primrose curtains, the spring afternoon outside.
“Let us have tea,” she said. She handled the pretty flowered cups and under her astonished eyes the painted flowers were like a little garden, gay and sweet and gilded. She seemed to smell them and the hiss of the kettle was like a song. Then, as she handed him his cup and looked into his wretched face and remembered the bitter reality of things, she still could not lose all sense of sweetness.
“Don’t say any more!” she said quickly. “Don’t say another word.”
“I won’t, if you’re sure you know everything. Do you?”
“Yes.” She drew a breath. “I care—beyond speaking of it. Francis, not a word!”
It was extraordinary, it was inexplicable, but it was true and happily beyond the region of regrets, for if she had married him years ago she would never have loved him in this miraculous, sudden way, with this passion of tenderness, this desire to make him happy, this terrible conviction that she could not do it, this promise of suffering for herself. And the wonder of it was that he had no likeness to that absurd Francis of whom she had dreamed and whom she had not loved; no likeness, either, to the colossal tyrant. The man she loved was in some ways weak, he was petulant, he was a baby, but he needed her and, for a romantic and sentimental moment, she saw herself as his refuge, his strength. She could not, must not communicate those thoughts. She began to talk happily and serenely about ordinary things until she remembered that she had lingered past her usual hour and that upstairs Christabel must be listening for the sound of her horse’s hoofs. She started up.