“Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to join as well.”
“My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it.”
“And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case.”
Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her.
“Is the young person mad?” burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. “Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be well smacked, and sent back to Sunday school.”
His mother said nothing.
“But don’t you see—she is practically threatening us? You can’t put her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a nonentity. If we don’t do anything she’s going to raise a scandal—that we neglect our relatives, etc., which is, of course, a lie. Still she’ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad.”
She still said nothing.
“Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I’d really enjoy it.”
In a low, serious voice—such a voice as she had not used to him for months—Mrs. Herriton said, “Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place—and with that father?”
Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself.
“Let us admit frankly,” she continued, “that after all we may have responsibilities.”
“I don’t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?”
In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own—tactics which might be beyond or beneath him.
His remark offended her. “Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?”
“And this is the result of half a dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?”
“It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia’s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel—who will certainly bring it up to be vicious—I shall do it.”
“You talk like Harriet.”
“And why not?” said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. “Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have him. I don’t care if I am impulsive.”
He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him worship Italy, and reform Sawston—just as she had let Harriet be Low Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing she always got it.
And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with reverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose was her diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Did they make anyone better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutches after pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, useless machine.
Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus. But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go on doing what she wanted. He watched with a cold interest the duel between her and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton’s policy only appeared gradually. It was to prevent Miss Abbott interfering with the child at all costs, and if possible to prevent her at a small cost. Pride was the only solid element in her disposition. She could not bear to seem less charitable than others.
“I am planning what can be done,” she would tell people, “and that kind Caroline Abbott is helping me. It is no business of either of us, but we are getting to feel that the baby must not be left entirely to that horrible man. It would be unfair to little Irma; after all, he is her half brother. No, we have come to nothing definite.”
Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by good intentions. The child’s welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matter of pride or even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo a little of the evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To her imagination Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneath whose towers no person could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with its semidetached houses and snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull; at times she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up.
As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino—the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia’s money for its education.
“What do you think of it?” she asked her son. “It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it.”
“Certainly he will never suppose that.”
“But what effect will the letter have on him?”
“When he gets it he will do a sum. If
