Miss Townsend said she would do whatever Edith liked. She could easily arrange to go with them at once. This was a relief, for just at this moment Edith felt as if even the children would be a burden.
Sweet, gentle Miss Townsend went away. She was dressed rather like herself, Edith observed; she imitated Edith. She had the soft, graceful manner and sweet voice of her employer. She was slim and had a pretty figure, but was entirely without Edith"s charm or beauty. Vaguely Edith wondered if she would ever have a love affair, ever marry. She hoped so, but (selfishly) not till Archie went to Eton.
Then she found herself looking at her lonely lunch; she tried to eat, gave it up, asked for a cup of tea.
At last, she could bear the flat no longer. It was a glorious day, very hot, Edith felt peculiar. She thought that if she spent all the afternoon out and alone, it would comfort her, and she would think it out. Trees and sky and sun had always a soothing effect on her. She went out, walked a little, felt worried by the crowd of shoppers swarming to Sloane Street and the Brompton Road, got into a taxi and drove to the gate of Kensington Gardens, opposite Kensington Gore. Here she soon found a seat. At this time of the day the gardens were rather unoccupied, and in the burning July afternoon she felt almost as if in the country. She took off her gloves--a gesture habitual with her whenever possible. She looked utterly restful. She had nothing in her hands, for she never carried either a parasol or a bag, nor even in winter a m.u.f.f or in the evening a fan. All these little accessories seemed unnecessary to her. She liked to simplify. She hated fuss, anything worrying, agitating.
... And now she felt deeply miserable, perturbed and agitated. What a punishment for giving way to that half-coquettish, half self-indulgent impulse that had made her write to Paris! She had begged him to come back; while, really, he was here, and had not even let her know. She had never liked what she had heard of Mavis Argles, but had vaguely pitied her, wondering what Vincy saw in her, and wishing to believe the best. Now, she a.s.sumed the worst! As soon as Vincy had gone out of town--he was staying in Surrey with some of his relatives--she, the minx, began flirting or carrying on with Aylmer. How far had it gone?
she wondered jealously. She did not believe Aylmer"s love-making to be harmless. He was so easily carried away. His feelings were impulsive.
Yet it was only a very short time since Vincy had told her of Aylmer"s miserable letter. Edith was not interested in herself, and seldom thought much of her own feelings, but she hated self-deception; and now she faced facts. She adored Aylmer! It had been purely jealousy that made her write to Paris so touchingly, asking him to come back--vague fears that, if he were so depressed in Spain, perhaps he might try by amus.e.m.e.nts to forget her in Paris. He had once said to her that, of all places, he thought Paris the least attractive for a romance, because it was all so obvious, so prepared, so professional. He liked the unexpected, the veiled and somewhat more hypocritical atmosphere, and in the fogs of London, he had said, were more romantic mysteries than in any other city. Still, she had feared. And besides she longed to see him. So she had unbent and thought herself soon after somewhat reckless; it was a little wanton and unfair to bring him back. But she was not a saint; she was a woman; and sometimes Bruce was trying....
Edith belonged to the superior cla.s.s of human being whom jealousy chills and cures, and does not stimulate to further efforts. It was not in her to go in for compet.i.tion. The moment she believed someone else took her place she relaxed her hold. This is the finer temperament, but it suffers most.
She would not try to take Aylmer away. Let him remain with his red-haired Miss Argles! He might even marry her. He deserved it.
She meant to tell Vincy, of course. Poor Vincy, _he_ didn"t know of the treachery. Now she must devote herself to the children, and be good and kind to Bruce. At least, Bruce was _true_ to her in his way.
He had been in love when they married, but Edith shrewdly suspected he was not capable of very much more than a weak rather fatuous sentiment for any woman. And anyone but herself would have lost him many years ago, would very likely have given him up. But she had kept it all together, had really helped him, and was touched when she remembered that jealous scene he made about the letter. The letter she wouldn"t at first let him see. Poor Bruce! Well, they were linked together. There were Archie, the angel, and Dilly, the pet.... She was twenty-eight and Aylmer forty. He ought not to hold so strong a position in her mind.
But he did. Yes, she was in love with him in a way--it was a mania, an obsession. But she would now soon wrestle with it and conquer it. The great charm had been his exclusive devotion--but also his appearance, his figure, his voice. He looked sunburnt and handsome. He was laughing as he talked to the miserable creature (so Edith called her in her own mind).
Then Edith had a reaction. She would cure herself today! No more flirtation, no more amitie amoureuse. They were going away. The children, darlings, how they loved her! And Bruce. She was reminding herself she must be gentle, good, to Bruce. He had at least never deceived her!
She got up and walked on and on. It was about five o"clock now. As she walked, she thought how fortunate she was in Miss Townsend; what a nice girl she was, what a good friend to her and the children. She had a sort of intuition that made her always have the right word, the right manner. She had seemed a little odd lately, but she was quite pleased to come with them to the country. What made her think of Miss Townsend?
Some way off was a girl, with her back to Edith, walking with a man.
Her figure was like Miss Townsend"s, and she wore a dress like the one copied from Edith"s. Edith walked more quickly, it was the retired part of the gardens on the way towards the Bayswater Road. The two figures turned down a flowery path.... It was Miss Townsend! She had turned her face. Edith was surprised, was interested, and walked on a few steps.
She had not seen the man clearly. Then they both sat down on a seat. He took her hand. She left it in his. There was something familiar in his figure and clothes, and Edith saw his face.
Yes, it was Bruce.
Edith turned round and went home.
CHAPTER XX
Journeys End
So that was how Bruce behaved to her!
The deceit of both of them hurt her immensely. But she pulled herself together. It was a case for action. She felt a bitter, amused contempt, but she felt it half-urgent _not_ to do anything that would lead to a life of miserable bickering and mutual harm.
It must be stopped. And without making Bruce hate her.
She wrote the second note of this strange day and sent it by a messenger.
Giving no reason of any kind, she told the governess that she had decided the children"s holidays should begin from that day, and that she was unexpectedly going away with them almost immediately, and she added that she would not require Miss Townsend any more. She enclosed a cheque, and said she would send on some books and small possessions that Miss Townsend had kept there.
This was sent by a messenger to Miss Townsend"s home near Westbourne Grove. She would find it on her return from her walk!
And now Edith read Aylmer"s note--it was so real, so sincere, she began to disbelieve her eyes this morning.
It gave her more courage; she wanted to be absolutely calm, and looking her very best, for Bruce"s entrance.
He came in with his key. He avoided her eye a little--looked rather sheepish, she thought. It was about seven.
"Hallo! Aren"t the children in yet? Far too late for them to be out."
"Nurse fetched Dilly. She has gone to bed. Archie is coming presently; mother will send him all right."
"How are you, Edith, old girl?"
"I"m quite well, Bruce."
"I have a sort of idea, as you know," he said, growing more at ease, "that we shall rather miss--a--Miss Townsend, when we first go away.
What do you think of taking her for part of the time?" "Dinner"s ready," announced Edith, and they dined. Towards the end of dinner he was about to make the suggestion again, when Edith said in clear, calm but decided tones:
"Bruce, I am not going to take Miss Townsend away with us. She is not coming any more."
"Not--Why? What the devil"s the idea of this new scheme? What"s the matter with Miss Townsend?"
"Bruce," answered Edith, "I prefer not to go into the question, and later you will be glad I did not. I"ve decided that Miss Townsend is not to come any more at all. I"ve written to tell her so. I"ll look after the children with nurse until we come back.... It"s all settled."
Bruce was silent.
"Well upon my word!" he exclaimed, looking at her uneasily. "Have it your own way, of course--but upon my word! Why?"
"Do you really want me to tell you exactly why? I would so much prefer not."
"Oh, all right, Edith dear; after all--hang it all--you"re the children"s mother--it"s for you to settle.... No, I don"t want to know anything. Have it as you wish."
"Then we won"t discuss it again. Shall we?"
"All right."
He was looking really rather shamefaced, and she thought she saw a gleam of remorse and also of relief in his eye. She went into the other room. She had not shown him Aylmer"s letter.
After ten minutes he came in and said: "Look here, Edith. Make what arrangements you like. _I_ never want to see--Miss Townsend again."
She looked a question.
"And I never shall."
She was really pleased at this, and held out her hand. Bruce had tears in his eyes as he took it. "Edith, old girl, I think I"ll go round to the club for an hour or two."
"Do. And look here, Bruce, leave it to me to tell the children. They"ll forget after the holidays. Archie must not be upset."
"Whatever you do, Edith, will be--what I mean to say is that--Well, good night; I sha"n"t be long."
Edith was really delighted, she felt she had won, and she _did_ want that horrid little Townsend to be scored off! Wasn"t it natural? She wanted to hear no more about it.