as the top of the road,' Zenobia persisted. 'I am sure the air would do us good, and I should appreciate your company, and perhaps your arm.'
It was ridiculous-Zenobia was far stronger than Helen and assuredly had no need for support, but it was an invitation Helen could not civilly refuse, phrased in such terms. Obediently she excused herself to her husband and mother-in-law, and five minutes later she and Zenobia were outside in the sunny street.
It was a subject that could not possibly be approached directly, yet Zenobia felt impelled, even at the risk of causing serious offense, to speak to Helen as if she had been a daughter, a reflection of her own youth. She was prepared to mix truth of emotion with invention of setting in order to do it.
'My dear, I sympathize with you deeply,' she began as soon as they were a few yards from the house. 'I too lost my father in violent and distressing circumstances.' She had not time to waste recounting that piece of fiction; it was merely an introduction. The story that mattered was of Zenobia's desperate attempt to win from a man a love of which he was not capable, and how instead she had lost her own
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integrity, paying a fortune for an article that did not exist, for her or for anyone.
She began slowly, extending her invented bereavement into her journeys to Africa, avoiding the numbing reality of Bal-aklava and Peter Holland's death. Instead she created first an imaginary father snatched in his late prime, then on to a suitor, a mixture of men she had known and cared for in one fashion or another-but never Peter.
'Oh my dear, I loved him so much,' she sighed, looking not at Helen but at the briar hedge a little to their left. 'He was handsome, and so considerate, such delightful and interesting company.'
'What happened?' Helen asked out of politeness, not interest, because the silence seemed to require it.
Zenobia mixed disillusion with a modicum of poetic license.
' 'I gave him the finances for his trip, and unwisely many gifts towards it also.'
Helen's whole attention was caught for the first time.' 'That is only natural-you loved him.'
'And I wanted nun to love me,' Zenobia continued, aware that she was about to wound, perhaps intensely. 'I even did things that on looking back I realize were dishonorable. I suppose I knew it at the time, had I been brave enough to admit it.' She did not look at Helen, but kept her eyes on the white drifting clouds scudding across the sky ahead of them. 'It took me a long time and much heartache before I understood that I had paid a high price for something which was not real, something I could never hope to gain.'
' 'What?'' Helen swallowed hard, and still Zenobia did not look at her. 'What do you mean?'
'That it is an illusion many women have, my dear, that all men are capable of the kind of love we long for, and that if we are only faithful, generous, and patient enough they will give it to us in the end. Some people are not capable of that commitment. You cannot draw a deep draft from a shal-
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low vessel, and to try to do so will only cost you your peace of mind, your good health, perhaps even your self-esteem, the integrity of your own ideals which are at the heart of all lasting happiness.''
Helen said nothing for several minutes. There was no sound but the steady rhythm of their footsteps on the pavement, a bird singing in a high tree, green against the blue sky, and upon the main road the clop of horses' hooves and the hiss of carriage wheels.
At last Helen put her hand very gently on Zenobia's arm. 'Thank you,' she said with difficulty. 'I think I have been doing the same thing. Perhaps you knew? But somehow I shall find the courage to cease now. I have already done enough damage. I have cast blame on the women fighting to be represented in Parliament, because I was desperate to direct the police away from my household, when in truth I have no idea that they have any guilt in my father's death. It was a shabby thing to do. I pray no one has been injured by it-except myself, for my poverty of spirit.
'It is a very hard truth to face, but-but I believe the time is past-' She stopped, unable to go on, and indeed words were unnecessary. Zenobia knew what she meant. She simply placed her hand over Helen's, and they continued to walk up the bright, sunlit street amid the hedges in silence.
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