“Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to leave off — and be-amiable?”
“Amiable?”
“You are a jolly torment. What’s upset you now?”
“Nay, it’s not I who am upset.”
“I’m glad to hear it — what do you call yourself?”
“I? — nothing.”
“Oh, well, I’m going then.”
“Must you? — so early tonight?”
He did not go, and she played more and more softly, languidly, aimlessly. Once she lifted her head to speak, but did not say anything.
“Look here!” he ejaculated all at once, so that she started, and jarred the piano, “What do you mean by it?”
She jingled leisurely a few seconds before answering, then she replied:
“What a worry you are!”
“I suppose you want me out of the way while you sentimentalise over that milkman. You needn’t bother. You can do it while I’m here. Or I’ll go and leave you in peace. I’ll go and call him back for you, if you like — if that’s what you want —”
She turned on the piano stool slowly and looked at him, smiling faintly.
“It is very good of you!” she said.
He clenched his fists and grinned with rage.
“You tantalising little —” he began, lifting his fists expressively. She smiled. Then he swung round, knocked several hats flying off the stand in the hall, slammed the door, and was gone.
Lettie continued to play for some time, after which she went up to her own room.
Leslie did not return to us the next day, nor the day after. The first day Marie came and told us he had gone away to Yorkshire to see about the new mines that were being sunk there, and was likely to be absent for a week or so. These business visits to the north were rather frequent. The firm, of which Mr Tempest was director and chief shareholder, were opening important new mines in the other county, as the seams at home were becoming exhausted or unprofitable. It was proposed that Leslie should live in Yorkshire when he was married, to superintend the new workings. He at first rejected the idea, but he seemed later to approve of it more.
During the time he was away Lettie was moody and cross-tempered. She did not mention George nor the mill; indeed, she preserved her best, most haughty and ladylike manner.
On the evening of the fourth day of Leslie’s absence we were out in the garden. The trees were “uttering joyous leaves”. My mother was in the midst of her garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look at the velvet lips, or tenderly taking a young weed from the black soil. The thrushes were calling and clamouring all round. The japonica flamed on the wall as the light grew thicker; the tassels of white cherry-blossom swung gently in the breeze.
“What shall I do, Mother?” said Lettie, as she wandered across the grass to pick at the japonica flowers. “What shall I do? There’s nothing to do.”
“Well, my girl — what do you want to do? You have been moping about all day — go and see somebody.”
“It’s such a long way to Eberwich.”
“Is it? Then go somewhere nearer.”
Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, “And I feel as if I might just as well never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren’t buried in this dead little hole — I wish we were near the town — it’s hateful having to depend on about two or three folk for your — your — your pleasure in life.”
“I can’t help it, my dear — you must do something for yourself.”
“And what can I do? — I can do nothing.”
“Then I’d go to bed.”
“That I won’t — with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if I’d do something desperate.”
“Very well, then,” said Mother, “do it, and have done.”
“Oh, it’s no good talking to you — I don’t want —” She turned away, went to the laurestinus, and began pulling off it the long red berries. I expected she would fret the evening wastefully away. I noticed all at once that she stood still. It was the noise of a motor-car running rapidly down the hill towards Nethermere — a light, quick-clicking sound. I listened also. I could feel the swinging drop of the car as it came down the leaps of the hill. We could see the dust trail up among the trees. Lettie raised her head and listened expectantly. The car rushed along the edge of Nethermere — then there was the jar of brakes, as the machine slowed down and stopped. In a moment with a quick flutter of sound, it was passing the lodge gates and whirling up the drive, through the wood, to us. Lettie stood with flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She went towards the bushes that shut off the lawn from the gravelled space in front of the house, watching. A car came racing through the trees. It was the small car Leslie used on the firm’s business — now it was white with dust. Leslie suddenly put on the brakes, and tore to a standstill in front of the house. He stepped to the ground. There he staggered a little, being giddy and cramped with the long drive. His motor-jacket and cap were thick with dust.
Lettie called to him, “Leslie!”— and flew down to him. He took her into his arms, and clouds of dust rose round her. He kissed her, and they stood perfectly still for a moment. She looked up into his face — then she disengaged her arms to take off his disfiguring motor-spectacles. After she had looked at him a moment, tenderly, she kissed him again. He loosened his hold of her, and she said, in a voice full of tenderness:
“You are trembling, dear.”
“It’s the ride. I’ve never stopped.”
Without further words she took him into the house.
“How pale you are — see, lie on the couch — never mind the dust. All right, I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. Oh, Mother, he’s come all those miles in the car without stopping — make him lie down.”
She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue and excitement.
“I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching — I can feel the road coming at me yet,” he said.
“Why were you so headlong?”
“I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come — if I didn’t rush. I didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said — what I did.”
She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at her.
“It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate — I’ve been half mad since I said — Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch — I could have torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how thankful I am, Lettie, that you’ve not — oh — turned against me for what I said.”
She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his forehead, kissing him, her attitude tender, suggesting tears, her movements impulsive, as if with a self-reproach she would not acknowledge, but which she must silence with lavish tenderness. He drew her to him, and they remained quiet for some time, till it grew dark.
The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie rose, and he also got up from the couch.
“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to go home and get bathed and dressed — though,” he added