The Spoils of Poynton Part 3
"Quite proper," said Mrs. Gereth austerely. Then to Fleda: "Please go to him."
"But what to do?"
"What you always do--to see what he wants." Mrs. Gereth dismissed the maid. "Tell him Miss Vetch will come." Fleda saw that nothing was in the mother's imagination at this moment but the desire not to meet her son.
She had completely broken with him, and there was little in what had just happened to repair the rupture. It would now take more to do so than his presenting himself uninvited at her door. "He's right in asking for you--he's aware that you're still our communicator; nothing has occurred to alter that. To what he wishes to transmit through you I'm ready, as I've been ready before, to listen. As far as _I_'m concerned, if I couldn't meet him a month ago, how am I to meet him to-day? If he has come to say, 'My dear mother, you're here, in the hovel into which I've flung you, with consolations that give me pleasure,' I'll listen to him; but on no other footing. That's what you're to ascertain, please.
You'll oblige me as you've obliged me before. There!" Mrs. Gereth turned her back and, with a fine imitation of superiority, began to redress the miseries immediately before her. Fleda meanwhile hesitated, lingered for some minutes where she had been left, feeling secretly that her fate still had her in hand. It had put her face to face with Owen Gereth, and it evidently meant to keep her so. She was reminded afresh of two things: one of which was that, though she judged her friend's rigor, she had never really had the story of the scene enacted in the great awestricken house between the mother and the son weeks before--the day the former took to her bed in her over-throw; the other was, that at Ricks as at Poynton, it was before all things her place to accept thankfully a usefulness not, she must remember, universally acknowledged. What determined her at the last, while Mrs. Gereth disappeared in the shrubbery, was that, though she was at a distance from the house and the drawing-room was turned the other way, she could absolutely see the young man alone there with the sources of his pain.
She saw his simple stare at his tapestries, heard his heavy tread on his carpets and the hard breath of his sense of unfairness. At this she went to him fast.
VIII
"I asked for you," he said when she stood there, "because I heard from the flyman who drove me from the station to the inn that he had brought you here yesterday. We had some talk, and he mentioned it."
"You didn't know I was here?"
"No. I knew only that you had had, in London, all that you told me, that day, to do; and it was Mona's idea that after your sister's marriage you were staying on with your father. So I thought you were with him still."
"I am," Fleda replied, idealizing a little the fact. "I'm here only for a moment. But do you mean," she went on, "that if you had known I was with your mother you wouldn't have come down?"
The way Owen hung fire at this question made it sound more playful than she had intended. She had, in fact, no consciousness of any intention but that of confining herself rigidly to her function. She could already see that, in whatever he had now braced himself for, she was an element he had not reckoned with. His preparation had been of a different sort--the sort congruous with his having been careful to go first and lunch solidly at the inn. He had not been forced to ask for her, but she became aware, in his presence, of a particular desire to make him feel that no harm could really come to him. She might upset him, as people called it, but she would take no advantage of having done so. She had never seen a person with whom she wished more to be light and easy, to be exceptionally human. The account he presently gave of the matter was that he indeed wouldn't have come if he had known she was on the spot; because then, didn't she see? he could have written to her. He would have had her there to let fly at his mother.
"That would have saved me--well, it would have saved me a lot. Of course I would rather see you than her," he somewhat awkwardly added. "When the fellow spoke of you, I a.s.sure you I quite jumped at you. In fact I've no real desire to see Mummy at all. If she thinks I _like_ it--!" He sighed disgustedly. "I only came down because it seemed better than any other way. I didn't want her to be able to say I hadn't been all right. I dare say you know she has taken everything; or if not quite everything, why, a lot more than one ever dreamed. You can see for yourself--she has got half the place down. She has got them crammed--you can see for yourself!" He had his old trick of artless repet.i.tion, his helpless iteration of the obvious; but he was sensibly different, for Fleda, if only by the difference of his clear face, mottled over and almost disfigured by little points of pain. He might have been a fine young man with a bad toothache; with the first even of his life. What ailed him above all, she felt, was that trouble was new to him: he had never known a difficulty; he had taken all his fences, his world wholly the world of the personally possible, rounded indeed by a gray suburb into which he had never had occasion to stray. In this vulgar and ill-lighted region he had evidently now lost himself. "We left it quite to her honor, you know," he said ruefully.
"Perhaps you've a right to say that you left it a little to mine." Mixed up with the spoils there, rising before him as if she were in a manner their keeper, she felt that she must absolutely dissociate herself. Mrs.
Gereth had made it impossible to do anything but give her away. "I can only tell you that, on my side, I left it to her. I never dreamed either that she would pick out so many things."
"And you don't really think it's fair, do you? You _don't_!" He spoke very quickly; he really seemed to plead.
Fleda faltered a moment. "I think she has gone too far." Then she added: "I shall immediately tell her that I've said that to you."
He appeared puzzled by this statement, but he presently rejoined: "You haven't then said to mamma what you think?"
"Not yet; remember that I only got here last night." She appeared to herself ign.o.bly weak. "I had had no idea what she was doing; I was taken completely by surprise. She managed it wonderfully."
"It's the sharpest thing I ever saw in _my_ life!" They looked at each other with intelligence, in appreciation of the sharpness, and Owen quickly broke into a loud laugh. The laugh was in itself natural, but the occasion of it strange; and stranger still, to Fleda, so that she too almost laughed, the inconsequent charity with which he added: "Poor dear old Mummy! That's one of the reasons I asked for you," he went on--"to see if you'd back her up."
Whatever he said or did, she somehow liked him the better for it. "How can I back her up, Mr. Gereth, when I think, as I tell you, that she has made a great mistake?"
"A great mistake! That's all right." He spoke--it wasn't clear to her why--as if this declaration were a great point gained.
"Of course there are many things she hasn't taken," Fleda continued.
"Oh yes, a lot of things. But you wouldn't know the place, all the same." He looked about the room with his discolored, swindled face, which deepened Fleda's compa.s.sion for him, conjuring away any smile at so candid an image of the dupe. "You'd know this one soon enough, wouldn't you? These are just the things she ought to have left. Is the whole house full of them?"
"The whole house," said Fleda uncompromisingly. She thought of her lovely room.
"I never knew how much I cared for them. They're awfully valuable, aren't they?" Owen's manner mystified her; she was conscious of a return of the agitation he had produced in her on that last bewildering day, and she reminded herself that, now she was warned, it would be inexcusable of her to allow him to justify the fear that had dropped on her. "Mother thinks I never took any notice, but I a.s.sure you I was awfully proud of everything. Upon my honor, I _was_ proud, Miss Vetch."
There was an oddity in his helplessness; he appeared to wish to persuade her and to satisfy himself that she sincerely felt how worthy he really was to treat what had happened as an injury. She could only exclaim, almost as helplessly as himself: "Of course you did justice! It's all most painful. I shall instantly let your mother know," she again declared, "the way I've spoken of her to you." She clung to that idea as to the sign of her straightness.
"You'll tell her what you think she ought to do?" he asked with some eagerness.
"What she ought to do?"
"_Don't_ you think it--I mean that she ought to give them up?"
"To give them up?" Fleda hesitated again.
"To send them back--to keep it quiet." The girl had not felt the impulse to ask him to sit down among the monuments of his wrong, so that, nervously, awkwardly, he fidgeted about the room with his hands in his pockets and an effect of returning a little into possession through the formulation of his view. "To have them packed and dispatched again, since she knows so well how. She does it beautifully"--he looked close at two or three precious pieces. "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander!"
He had laughed at his way of putting it, but Fleda remained grave. "Is that what you came to say to her?"
"Not exactly those words. But I did come to say"--he stammered, then brought it out--"I did come to say we must have them right back."
"And did you think your mother would see you?"
"I wasn't sure, but I thought it right to try--to put it to her kindly, don't you see? If she won't see me, then she has herself to thank. The only other way would have been to set the lawyers at her."
"I'm glad you didn't do that."
"I'm dashed if I want to!" Owen honestly declared. "But what's a fellow to do if she won't meet a fellow?"
"What do you call meeting a fellow?" Fleda asked, with a smile.
"Why, letting _me_ tell her a dozen things she can have."
This was a transaction that Fleda, after a moment, had to give up trying to represent to herself. "If she won't do that--?" she went on.
"I'll leave it all to my solicitor. _He_ won't let her off: by Jove, I know the fellow!"
"That's horrible!" said Fleda, looking at him in woe.
"It's utterly beastly!"
His want of logic as well as his vehemence startled her; and with her eyes still on his she considered before asking him the question these things suggested. At last she asked it. "Is Mona very angry?"
"Oh dear, yes!" said Owen.
She had perceived that he wouldn't speak of Mona without her beginning.
After waiting fruitlessly now for him to say more, she continued: "She has been there again? She has seen the state of the house?"
"Oh dear, yes!" Owen repeated.
Fleda disliked to appear not to take account of his brevity, but it was just because she was struck by it that she felt the pressure of the desire to know more. What it suggested was simply what her intelligence supplied, for he was incapable of any art of insinuation. Wasn't it at all events the rule of communication with him to say for him what he couldn't say? This truth was present to the girl as she inquired if Mona greatly resented what Mrs. Gereth had done. He satisfied her promptly; he was standing before the fire, his back to it, his long legs apart, his hands, behind him, rather violently jiggling his gloves. "She hates it awfully. In fact, she refuses to put up with it at all. Don't you see?--she saw the place with all the things."