Young Lives Part 28

"Of course, I will. That's precious little to do anyhow."

"It's a good deal, really. But be sure you do it."

"And, of course, you'll write to me sometimes. I don't think you know yet what your letters are to me. I never work so well as when I've had a letter from you."

"Really, dear lad, I don't fancy you know how happy that makes me to hear."

"Yes, you take just the sort of interest in my work I want, and that no one else takes."

"Not even Angel?" said Myrtilla, slily.

"Angel, bless her, loves my work; and is a brave little critic of it; but then it isn't disloyal to her to say that she doesn't know as much as you. Besides, she doesn't approach it in quite the same way. She cares for it, first, because it is mine, and only secondly for its own sake. Now you care for it just for what it is--"

"I care for it, certainly, for what it's going to be," said Myrtilla, making one of those honest distinctions which made her opinion so stimulating to Henry.

"Yes, there you are. You're artistically ambitious for me; you know what I want to do, even before I know myself. That's why you're so good for me. No one but you is that for me; and--poor stuff as I know it is--never write a word without wondering what you will think of it."

"You're sure it's quite true," said Myrtilla; "don't say so if it isn't.

Because you know you're saying what I care most to hear, perhaps, of anything you could say. You know how I love literature, and--well, you know too how fond I am of you, dear lad, don't you?"

Literary criticism had kindled into emotion; and Henry bent down, and kissed Myrtilla's hand. In return she let her hand rest a moment lightly on his hair, and then, rather spasmodically, turned to remark on his bookshelves with suspicious energy.

At that moment another step was heard in the corridor, again feminine.

Henry knew it for Angel's; and it may be that his expression grew a shade embarra.s.sed, as he said:

"I believe I shall be able to introduce you to Angel after all--for I think this is she coming along the pa.s.sage."

As Henry opened the door, Angel was on the point of throwing her arms round his neck, when, noticing a certain constraint in his manner of greeting, she realised that he was not alone.

"We were just talking of you, dear," said Henry. "This is my friend, Mrs. Williamson,--'Myrtilla,' of whom you've often heard me speak."

"Oh, yes, I've often heard of Mrs. Williamson," said Angel, not of course suffering the irony of her thought to escape into her voice.

"And I've heard no less of Miss Flower," said Mrs. Williamson, "not indeed from this faithless boy here,--for I haven't seen him for so long that I've had to humble myself at last and call,--but from Esther."

Myrtilla loved the transparent face, pulsing with light, flus.h.i.+ng or fading with her varying mood, answering with exquisite delicacy to any advance and retreat of the soul within. But an invincible prejudice, or perhaps rather fear, shut Angel's eyes from the appreciation of Myrtilla. She was sweet and beautiful, but to the child that Angel still was she suggested malign artifice. Angel looked at her as an imaginative child looks at the moon, with suspicion.

So, in spite of Myrtilla's efforts to make friends, the conversation sustained a distinct loss in sprightliness by Angel's arrival.

Myrtilla, perhaps divining a little of the truth, rose to go.

"Well, I'm afraid it's quite a long good-bye," she said.

"Oh, you're going away?" said Angel, with a shade of relief involuntarily in her voice.

"Oh, yes, perhaps before we meet again, you and Henry will be married.

I'm sure I sincerely hope so."

"Thank you," said Angel, somewhat coldly.

"Well, good-bye, Henry," said Myrtilla,--it was rather a strangled good-bye,--and then, in an evil moment, she caught sight of the Dante's head which, hidden in a recess, she had not noticed before. "I see you're still faithful to the Dante," she said; "that's sweet of you,--good-bye, good-bye, Miss Flower, Angel, perhaps you'll let me say, good-bye."

When she had gone there seemed a curious constraint in the air. You might have said that the consistency of the air had been doubled.

Gravitation was at least twice as many pounds as usual to the square inch. Every little movement seemed heavy as though the medium had been water instead of air. As Henry raised his hands to help Angel off with her jacket, they seemed weighted with lead.

"No, thank you," said Angel, "I won't take it off. I can't stay long."

"Why, dear, what do you mean? I thought you were going to stay the evening with me. I've quite a long new chapter to read to you."

"I'm sorry, Henry,--but I find I can't."

"Why, dear, how's that? Won't you tell me the reason? Has anything happened?"

Angel stood still in the middle of the room, with her face as firmly miserable as she could make it.

"Won't you tell me?" Henry pleaded. "Won't you speak to me? Come, dear--what's the matter?"

"You know well enough, Henry, what's the matter!" came an unexpected flash of speech.

"Indeed, I don't. I know of no reason whatever. How should I?"

"Well, then, Mrs. Williamson's the matter!--'Myrtilla,' as you call her.

Something told me it was like this all along, though I couldn't bear to doubt you, and so I put it away. I wonder how often she's been here when I have known nothing about it."

"This is the very first time she has ever set foot in these rooms,"

said Henry, growing cold in his turn. "I'll give you my word of honour, if you need it."

"I don't want to hear any more. I'm going. Good-bye."

"Going, Angel?" said Henry, standing between her and the door. "What can you mean? See now,--give your brains a chance! You're not thinking in the least. You've just let yourself go--for no reason at all. You'll be sorry to-morrow."

"Reason enough, I should think, when I find that you love another woman!"

"I love Myrtilla Williamson! It's a lie, Angel--and you ought to be ashamed to say it. It's unworthy of you."

"Why have you never told me then who made that sketch of Dante for you?

I suppose I should never have known, if she hadn't let it out. I asked you once, but you put me off."

Henry had indeed prevaricated, for Angel had chanced to ask him just after Myrtilla's letter about his poems.

"Well, I'll be frank," said Henry. "I didn't tell you, just because I feared an unreasonable scene like this--"

"If there had been nothing in it, there was nothing to fear; and, in any case, why should she paint pictures for you, if she doesn't care for you?--No, I'm going. Nothing will persuade me otherwise. Henry, please let pa.s.s, if you're a gentleman--" and poor little Angel's face fairly flamed. "No power on earth will keep me here--"

"All right, Angel--" and Henry let her have her way. Her feet echoed down the stairs, further and further away. She was gone; and Henry spent that evening in torturingly imagining every kind of accident that might happen to her on the way home. Every hour he expected to be suddenly called to look at her dead body--his work. And so the night pa.s.sed, and the morning dawned in agony. So went the whole of the next day, for he could be proud too--and the fault had been hers.

Thus they sat apart for three days, poles of determined silence. And then at last, on the evening of the third day, Henry, who was half beside himself with suspense, heard, with wild thankfulness, once more the little step in the pa.s.sage--it seemed fainter, he thought, and dragged a little, and the knock at the door was like a ghost's.