"It has the attraction of the horrible," she admitted. "He"d have done it, you know."
"It"s mediaeval," said Christine fondly. "And you were going away with Walter Blake!" She drew her little figure up straight. "Sibylla, you"re no woman if you don"t manage a man like that in the end. He"s worth it, you know."
"You mean--if I don"t let him manage me?" Sibylla was a little contemptuous. "I don"t care about tyranny, even tempered by epigrams,"
she explained.
"Well, not when you only do the epigrams," smiled Christine.
"That"s not true. I only ask a real partnership."
"You must begin by contributing all you have."
"I did. But Grantley----"
"Paid a composition? Oh yes, my dear; men do. That"s as old as Byron anyhow." She came suddenly to Sibylla and kissed her. "And you"d be adorable, properly deluded."
"You shan"t put it like that, Christine."
"Yes, I will--and I know he loves you."
"He can"t love anything--not really."
"I shall watch him. Oh, my dear, what a comfort to watch anybody except John! Oh yes, yes, I suppose you"d better have my story too. You"ve had most of it before--without the name. But look away. I"ve no theories, you know--and--well, I was in love."
She laughed a little, blushing red. But her composure returned when she had finished her confession.
"And now what do we think of one another?" she asked, with her usual satirical little smile. "You don"t know? Oh yes! You think me rather wicked, and I think you very silly; that"s about what it comes to."
"I suppose that is about it," Sibylla laughed reluctantly.
"But I"ve repented, and you"re only going to repent."
"Never!"
"Yes, you are. I take no credit for having done it first. It"s much easier to repent of wickedness than of nonsense. The wickedness is much pleasanter at the time, and so seems much worse afterwards."
"And now you"re in love with John?"
"Good heavens, no!" She pulled herself up. "Well, I don"t know. If I"m in love now, it"s not what I used to mean by it. One gets to use words so differently as time goes on."
"I don"t think I shall ever learn that."
Destiny a.s.sumed Christine"s small neat features for a moment in order to answer sternly:
"But you must!"
It was the worst way of dealing with Sibylla.
"I won"t!" she answered in overt rebellion, her cheek flushing now as her confession had not availed to make it flush.
Christine did not fail to perceive the comic element in the case--strong enough, at all events, to serve as a relief to conversation, almost piquant when Grantley conscientiously related all manner of uninteresting things in order that Sibylla might be at liberty to take an interest in them. But this aspect did not carry matters very far or afford much real consolation. Substantially no progress was made. The failure endured, and seemed to Christine as complete as the devastation wrought in her own life. Nay, here there was an aggravation. In her home--she almost smiled to use the word now--there was no child. Here there was the boy. Her thoughts flew forward to the time when he would wonderingly surmise, painfully guess, at last grow into knowledge.
And already the mind stirred in little Frank. His intelligence grew, his affection blossomed as the first buds of a flower. He was no more merely a pa.s.sive object of love and care. He began to know more than that he was nursed and fed, more than that his right was to these ministrations.
The idea of the reason dawned in him. He stretched forth his hand no longer for bounty only, but for the inspirer of bounty--for love. Strung to abnormal sensitiveness, Christine deluded herself with the fancy that already he felt the shadow over the house, that his young soul was already chilled by the clouds of anger, and vainly cried for the sunshine of sympathy. If she did not truly see, yet she foresaw truly.
Seeing and foreseeing, then, she asked where was the hope. And on this, with a bound, her thoughts were back to her own sorrow, and back to poor lonely old John in London, all by himself, with n.o.body to talk to, n.o.body to congratulate him on the success of his business, n.o.body to open his heart to, alone with his grievance against her, alone with the thought that, notwithstanding his grievance, he had taken Frank Caylesham"s money, and grew prosperous again by the aid of it.
When Christine had been at Milldean a fortnight or so, business carried Grantley to town. The change his departure made was instantaneous and striking. A weight was off the house, the clouds dispersed. Sibylla was full of gaiety, and in that mood she could make all about her share her mirth. Above all, her devotion to Frank was given full rein. The child was always with her, and she knew no happiness save in evoking and responding to his love. She was now open and ostentatious about it, fearing no frigid glances and no implied criticism of her fond folly.
Christine might well have found new ground for despair, so plainly did Sibylla display to her the blighting influence of Grantley"s presence.
He it was who froze up love--so Sibylla declared with an impetuous aggressive openness. But Christine would not despair. A wholesome anger rose in her heart and forbade despair. Her manner took on a coldness exceeding Grantley"s indifference. She would not be a sharer in the games, a partner in the merriment, a sympathiser in the love. Sibylla was not slow to see how she stood off and drew herself away. Quickly she sought for reasons. Was it that Christine would not join in what seemed to be a league against Grantley; or was there another reason? She had told Christine how it was through Walter Blake"s weakness and not through her scruples that little Frank had not been left to his fate.
Did her love then seem hypocrisy? That was not true--though it might be true that remorse now had a share in it. The more the child grew to life, the more horrible became the thought that he might have died.
After a day or two of smouldering protest, she broke out on Christine.
"You think I"ve no right to love him," she asked, "after what I was ready to do? Is that what you think? Oh, speak out plainly! I see you"ve got something against me."
Christine was cold and composed. Never had her delicately critical manner been more p.r.o.nounced.
"I"m sure I hope you repent," she observed meditatively; "and I hope you thank heaven that man was what he turned out to be."
"Well, call it repentance, then. I suppose I"ve a right to repent? You can"t understand how I really feel. But if it is repentance, why need you discourage it?"
"I don"t discourage repentance, and I"m glad you"re beginning to see that you ought to repent. But it"s not that I"m thinking of."
"What are you thinking of, then?" cried Sibylla in unrestrained impatience.
"You"re prepared for an open quarrel?"
"Oh, I shan"t quarrel with you!" Her smile was rather disdainful.
"No, you won"t quarrel with me; I"m not of enough importance to you! I"m very glad I"m not, you know. Being important to you doesn"t seem to be consistent with being an independent creature."
Sibylla glanced at her in arrested attention.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked in low quick tones. The charge was so strangely like that which she was for ever formulating against Grantley. Now Christine levelled it at her.
"You call Grantley selfish," Christine went on. "You"re just as bad yourself--yes, worse! He is trying to be different, I believe. Oh, I admit the poor man doesn"t do it very well: he gets very little encouragement! But are you trying? No! You"re quite content with yourself. You"ve done no wrong---- Well, perhaps it was a little questionable to be ready to leave Frank to die! But even that would be all right if only I could understand it!"
"You"d better go on now," said Sibylla quietly.
"Yes, I will go on; I am going on. You were ready to leave the child to die sooner than go on living as you"d been living. Isn"t that how you put it? You were willing to give his life to prevent that? Well, are you willing to give any of your own life, any of your way of thinking, any of what you call your nature, or your temperament, or what not? Not a bit of it! You can love Frank when there"s no danger of Grantley"s thinking it may mean that you could forgive him! As soon as there"s any danger of that, you draw back. You use the unhappy child as a shield between Grantley and yourself, as a weapon against Grantley. Yes you do, Sibylla. Whenever you"re inclined to relent towards Grantley, you go and sit by that child"s cot and use your love for him to fan your hatred against Grantley. Isn"t that true?"
Sibylla sat silent, with attentive frightened eyes. This was a new picture--was it a true one? One feature of it at least struck home with a terribly true-seeming likeness of her own mind. She used her love for her child to fan her hatred against Grantley!
"You complain," Christine went on in calm relentlessness, "of what Grantley is to the child. That"s a sham most of the time. You"re thinking of what he is to you. And even where it"s true, don"t you do all you can to make him feel as he does? How is he to love what you make the stalking-horse of your grievances?" She turned on Sibylla scornfully, almost fiercely now. "Your husband, your son, the whole world, aren"t made for your emotions to go sprawling over, Sibylla! You must have caught that idea from young Blake, I think."
She walked off to the window and stood there, looking out. No sound came from Sibylla. Presently Christine looked round rather nervously. She had gone a little too far perhaps. That phrase about emotions "sprawling"
was--well, decidedly uncompromising. She met Sibylla"s eyes. They wore a hunted look--as though some peril walled her in and she found no way of escape. Her voice trembled as she faltered:
"Is that what you really think of me, Christine?"