As they left the room it happened that Mrs. Paley’s wheeled chair ran into the Elliots, who were coming through the door, as she was going out. Brought thus to a standstill for a moment, Arthur and Susan congratulated Hughling Elliot upon his convalescence—he was down, cadaverous enough, for the first time—and Mr. Perrott took occasion to say a few words in private to Evelyn.
“Would there be any chance of seeing you this afternoon, about three-thirty say? I shall be in the garden, by the fountain.”
The block dissolved before Evelyn answered. But as she left them in the hall, she looked at him brightly and said, “Half-past three, did you say? That’ll suit me.”
She ran upstairs with the feeling of spiritual exaltation and quickened life which the prospect of an emotional scene always aroused in her. That Mr. Perrott was again about to propose to her, she had no doubt, and she was aware that on this occasion she ought to be prepared with a definite answer, for she was going away in three days’ time. But she could not bring her mind to bear upon the question. To come to a decision was very difficult to her, because she had a natural dislike of anything final and done with; she liked to go on and on—always on and on. She was leaving, and, therefore, she occupied herself in laying her clothes out side by side upon the bed. She observed that some were very shabby. She took the photograph of her father and mother, and, before she laid it away in her box, she held it for a minute in her hand. Rachel had looked at it. Suddenly the keen feeling of someone’s personality, which things that they have owned or handled sometimes preserves, overcame her; she felt Rachel in the room with her; it was as if she were on a ship at sea, and the life of the day was as unreal as the land in the distance. But by degrees the feeling of Rachel’s presence passed away, and she could no longer realise her, for she had scarcely known her. But this momentary sensation left her depressed and fatigued. What had she done with her life? What future was there before her? What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals and intimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she had seen on the faces of Susan and Rachel more real than anything she had ever felt?
She made herself ready to go downstairs, absentmindedly, but her fingers were so well trained that they did the work of preparing her almost of their own accord. When she was actually on the way downstairs, the blood began to circle through her body of its own accord too, for her mind felt very dull.
Mr. Perrott was waiting for her. Indeed, he had gone straight into the garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path for more than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense.
“I’m late as usual!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him. “Well, you must forgive me; I had to pack up. … My word! It looks stormy! And that’s a new steamer in the bay, isn’t it?”
She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, the smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran through the waves. “One’s quite forgotten what rain looks like,” she added.
But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather.
“Miss Murgatroyd,” he began with his usual formality, “I asked you to come here from a very selfish motive, I fear. I do not think you need to be assured once more of my feelings; but, as you are leaving so soon, I felt that I could not let you go without asking you to tell me—have I any reason to hope that you will ever come to care for me?”
He was very pale, and seemed unable to say any more.
The little gush of vitality which had come into Evelyn as she ran downstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent. There was nothing for her to say; she felt nothing. Now that he was actually asking her, in his elderly gentle words, to marry him, she felt less for him than she had ever felt before.
“Let’s sit down and talk it over,” she said rather unsteadily.
Mr. Perrott followed her to a curved green seat under a tree. They looked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceased to play. Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinking of what she was saying; the fountain without any water seemed to be the type of her own being.
“Of course I care for you,” she began, rushing her words out in a hurry; “I should be a brute if I didn’t. I think you’re quite one of the nicest people I’ve ever known, and one of the finest too. But I wish … I wish you didn’t care for me in that way. Are you sure you do?” For the moment she honestly desired that he should say no.
“Quite sure,” said Mr. Perrott.
“You see, I’m not as simple as most women,” Evelyn continued. “I think I want more. I don’t know exactly what I feel.”
He sat by her, watching her and refraining from speech.
“I sometimes think I haven’t got it in me to care very much for one person only. Someone else would make you a better wife. I can imagine you very happy with someone else.”
“If you think that there is any chance that you will come to care for me, I am quite content to wait,” said Mr. Perrott.
“Well—there’s no hurry, is there?” said Evelyn. “Suppose I thought it over and wrote and told you when I get back? I’m going to Moscow; I’ll
