turned away, went over to the fire and knelt down in front of it with her hands to the blaze. 'Yes,' she thought to herself, 'Rachel had authority all right. So pleased with herself, so sure of herself, so much the queen bee bossing us all. Isn't that enough to make one want to take a poker, to make one want to strike her down, to silence her once and for all? Rachel was always right, Rachel always knew best, Rachel always got her own way.'
She got up abruptly.
'Leo,' she said. 'Couldn't we — couldn't we be married quite soon instead of waiting until March?'
Leo looked at her. He was silent for a moment, and then he said: 'No, Gwenda, no. I don't think it would be a good plan.'
'Why not?'
'I think,' said Leo, 'it would be a pity to rush into anything.'
'What do you mean?'
She came across to him. She knelt down again beside him.
'Leo, what do you mean? You must tell me.'
He said: 'My dear, I just think that we mustn't, as I said, rush into anything.'
'But we will be married in March, as we planned?'
'I hope so… Yes, I hope so.'
'You don't speak as though you were sure Leo, don't you care any more?'
'Oh, my dear,' his hands rested on her shoulders, 'of course I care. You mean everything in the world to me.'
'Well, then,' said Gwenda impatiently.
'No.' He got up. 'No. Not yet. We must wait. We must be sure.'
'Sure of what?'
He did not answer. She said: 'You don't think — you can't think –' Leo said: 'I –1 don't think anything.'
The door opened and Kirsten Lindstrom came in with a tray which she put down on the desk.
'Here is your tea, Mr. Argyle. Shall I bring another cup for you, Gwenda, or will you join the others downstairs?'
Gwenda said: 'I will come down to the dining-room. I'll take these letters. They ought to go off.'
With slightly unsteady hands she picked up the letters Leo had just signed and went out of the room carrying them. Kirsten Lindstrom looked after her, then she looked back at Leo.
'What have you said to her?' she demanded. 'What have you done to upset her?'
'Nothing,' said Leo. His voice was tired. 'Nothing at all.'
Kirsten Lindstrom shrugged her shoulders. Then, without another word, she went out of the room. Her unseen, unspoken criticism, however, could be felt. Leo sighed, leaning back in his chair. He felt very tired. He poured out his tea but he did not drink it. Instead, he sat there in his chair staring unseeingly across the room, his mind busy in the past.
The social club he had been interested in, in the East End of London … It was there that he had first met Rachel Konstam. He could see her now clearly in his mind's eye. A girl of medium height, stocky in build, wearing what he had not appreciated at the time were very expensive clothes, but wearing them with a dowdy air. A round- faced girl, serious, warm-hearted, with an eagerness and a naivety which had appealed to him. So much that needed doing, so much that was worth doing!
She had poured out words eagerly, rather incoherently, and his heart had warmed to her. For he, too, had felt that there was much that needed doing, much that was worth doing; though he himself had a gift of natural irony that made him doubtful whether work worth doing was always as successful as it ought to be. But Rachel had had no doubts. If you did this, if you did that, if such and such an institution were endowed, the beneficial results would follow automatically.
She had never allowed, he saw now, for human nature. She had seen people always as cases, as problems to be dealt with. She had never seen that each human being was different, would react differently, had its own peculiar idiosyncrasies. He had said to her then, he remembered, not to expect too much. But she had always expected too much, although she had immediately disclaimed his accusation. She had always expected too much, and so always she had been disappointed. He had fallen in love with her quite quickly, and had been agreeably surprised to fred out that she was the daughter of wealthy parents.
They had planned their life together on a basis of high thinking and not precisely plain living. But he could see now clearly what it was that had principally attracted him to her. It was her warmth of heart. Only, and there was the tragedy, that warmth of heart had not really been for him. She had been in love with him, yes. But what she had really wanted from him and from life was children. And the children had not come.
They had visited doctors, reputable doctors, disreputable doctors, even quacks, and the verdict in the end had been one she was forced to accept. She would never have children of her own. He had been sorry for her, very sorry, and he had acquiesced quite willingly in her suggestion that they should adopt a child. They were already in touch with adoption societies when on the occasion of a visit to New York their car had knocked down a child running out from a tenement in the poorer quarter of the city.
Rachel had jumped out and knelt down in the street by the child who was only bruised, not hurt; a beautiful child, golden-haired and blue-eyed. Rachel had insisted on taking her to hospital to make sure there was no injury. She'd interviewed the child's relations; a slatternly aunt and the aunt's husband who obviously drank.
It was clear that they had no feeling for the child they had taken in to live with them since her own parents were dead. Rachel had suggested that the child should come and stay with them for a few days, and the woman had agreed with alacrity.
'Can't look after her properly here,' she'd said.
So Mary had been taken back to their suite at the hotel. The child had obviously enjoyed the soft bed and the luxurious bathroom. Rachel had bought her new clothes. Then the moment had come when the child had said: 'I don't want to go home. I want to stay here with you.'
Rachel had looked at him, looked at him with a sudden passion of longing and delight. She had said to him as soon as they were alone: 'Let's keep her. It'll easily be arranged. We'll adopt her. She'll be our own child. That woman'll be only too pleased to be rid of her.'
He had agreed easily enough. The child seemed quiet, well-behaved, docile. She'd obviously no feeling for the aunt and uncle with whom she lived. If this would make Rachel happy, they'd go, ahead. Lawyers were consulted, papers were signed and henceforth Mary O'Shaughnessy was known as Mary Argyle, and sailed with them for Europe . He had thought that at last poor Rachel would be happy. And she had been happy. Happy in an excited, almost feverish kind of way, doting on Mary, giving her every kind of expensive toy. And Mary had accepted placidly, sweetly. And yet, Leo thought, there had always been something that disturbed him a little. The child's easy acquiescence. Her lack of any kind of homesickness for her own place and people. True affection, he hoped, would come later. He could see no real signs of it now. Acceptance of benefits, complacence, enjoyment of all that was provided. But of love for her new adopted mother? No, he had not seen that.
It was from that time onwards, Leo thought, that he had somehow managed to slip to the background of Rachel Argyle's life. She was a woman who was by nature a mother, not a wife. Now with the acquiring of Mary, it was as though her maternal longings were not so much fulfilled as stimulated. One child was not enough for her.
All her enterprises from now on were connected with children. Her interest lay in orphanages, in endowments for crippled children, in cases of backward children, spastics, orthopaedics — always children. It was admirable. He felt all along that it was very admirable, but it had become the centre of her life. Little by little he began to indulge in his own activities. He began to go more deeply into the historical background of economics, which had always interested him. He withdrew more and more into his library. He engaged in research, in the writing of short, well phrased monographs. His wife, busy, earnest, happy, ran the house and increased her activities. He was courteous and acquiescent. He encouraged her.
'That is a very fine project, my dear.'
'Yes, yes, I should certainly go ahead with that.'
Occasionally a word of caution was slipped in.
'You want, I think, to examine the position very thoroughly before you commit yourself. You mustn't be carried away.'
She continued to consult him, but sometimes now it was almost perfunctory. As time went on she was more
