The Spoils of Poynton

you idiot. You're pale with your passion, you sweet thing. That's exactly what I wanted to see. I can't for the life of me think where the shame comes in.' Then with a finer significance, a look that seemed to Fleda strange, she added: 'It's all right.'

'I've seen him but twice,' said Fleda.

'But twice?' Mrs. Gereth still smiled.

'On the occasion, at papa's, that Mrs. Brigstock told you of, and one day, since then, down at Maggie's.'

'Well, those things are between yourselves, and you seem to me both poor creatures at best.' Mrs. Gereth spoke with a rich humor which tipped with light for an instant a real conviction. 'I don't know what you've got in your veins: you absurdly exaggerated the difficulties. But enough is as good as a feast, and when once I get you abroad together—!' She checked herself as if from excess of meaning; what might happen when she should get them abroad together was to be gathered only from the way she slowly rubbed her hands.

The gesture, however, made the promise so definite that for a moment her companion was almost beguiled. But there was nothing to account, as yet, for the wealth of Mrs. Gereth's certitude: the visit of the lady of Waterbath appeared but half to explain it. 'Is it permitted to be surprised,' Fleda deferentially asked, 'at Mrs. Brigstock's thinking it would help her to see you?'

'It's never permitted to be surprised at the aberrations of born fools,' said Mrs. Gereth. 'If a cow should try to calculate, that's the kind of happy thought she'd have. Mrs. Brigstock came down to plead with me.'

Fleda mused a moment. 'That's what she came to do with me,' she then honestly returned. 'But what did she expect to get of you, with your opposition so marked from the first?'

'She didn't know I want you, my dear. It's a wonder, with all my violence—the gross publicity I've given my desires. But she's as stupid as an owl—she doesn't feel your charm.'

Fleda felt herself flush slightly, but she tried to smile. 'Did you tell her all about it? Did you make her understand you want me?'

'For what do you take me? I wasn't such a donkey.'

'So as not to aggravate Mona?' Fleda suggested.

'So as not to aggravate Mona, naturally. We've had a narrow course to steer, but thank God we're at last in the open!'

'What do you call the open, Mrs. Gereth?' Fleda demanded. Then as the other faltered: 'Do you know where Mr. Owen is to-day?'

Mrs. Gereth stared. 'Do you mean he's at Waterbath? Well, that's your own affair. I can bear it if you can.'

'Wherever he is, I can bear it,' Fleda said. 'But I haven't the least idea where he is.'

'Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!' Mrs. Gereth broke out with a change of note that showed how deep a passion underlay everything she had said. The poor woman, catching her companion's hand, however, the next moment, as if to retract something of this harshness, spoke more patiently. 'Don't you understand, Fleda, how immensely, how devotedly, I've trusted you?' Her tone was indeed a supplication.

Fleda was infinitely shaken; she was silent a little. 'Yes, I understand. Did she go to you to complain of me?'

'She came to see what she could do. She had been tremendously upset, the day before, by what had taken place at your father's, and she had posted down to Ricks on the inspiration of the moment. She hadn't meant it on leaving home; it was the sight of you closeted there with Owen that had suddenly determined her. The whole story, she said, was written in your two faces: she spoke as if she had never seen such an exhibition. Owen was on the brink, but there might still be time to save him, and it was with this idea she had bearded me in my den. 'What won't a mother do, you know?'—that was one of the things she said. What wouldn't a mother do indeed? I thought I had sufficiently shown her what! She tried to break me down by an appeal to my good nature, as she called it, and from the moment she opened on you, from the moment she denounced Owen's falsity, I was as good-natured as she could wish. I understood that it was a plea for mere mercy, that you and he between you were killing her child. Of course I was delighted that Mona should be killed, but I was studiously kind to Mrs. Brigstock. At the same time I was honest, I didn't pretend to anything I couldn't feel. I asked her why the marriage hadn't taken place months ago, when Owen was perfectly ready; and I showed her how completely that fatuous mistake on Mona's part cleared his responsibility. It was she who had killed him—it was she who had destroyed his affection, his illusions. Did she want him now when he was estranged, when he was disgusted, when he had a sore grievance? She reminded me that Mona had a sore grievance too, but she admitted that she hadn't come to me to speak of that. What she had come to me for was not to get the old things back, but simply to get Owen. What she wanted was that I would, in simple pity, see fair play. Owen had been awfully bedeviled—she didn't call it that, she called it 'misled'—but it was simply you who had bedeviled him. He would be all right still if I would see that you were out of the way. She asked me point-blank if it was possible I could want him to marry you.'

Fleda had listened in unbearable pain and growing terror, as if her interlocutress, stone by stone, were piling some fatal mass upon her breast. She had the sense of being buried alive, smothered in the mere expansion of another will; and now there was but one gap left to the air. A single word, she felt, might close it, and with the question that came to her lips as Mrs. Gereth paused she seemed to herself to ask, in cold dread, for her doom. 'What did you say to that?' she inquired.

'I was embarrassed, for I saw my danger—the danger of her going home and saying to Mona that I was backing you up. It had been a bliss to learn that Owen had really turned to you, but my joy didn't put me off my guard. I reflected intensely for a few seconds; then I saw my issue.'

'Your issue?' Fleda murmured.

'I remembered how you had tied my hands about saying a word to Owen.'

Fleda wondered. 'And did you remember the little letter that, with your hands tied, you still succeeded in writing to him?'

'Perfectly; my little letter was a model of reticence. What I remembered was all that in those few words I forbade myself to say. I had been an angel of delicacy—I had effaced myself like a saint. It was not for me to have done all that and then figure to such a woman as having done the opposite. Besides, it was none of her business.'