Chapter XVIII: Out of the Question!

_April 26th, Saturday._

YESTERDAY evening was one of the very happiest that I have ever spent in all my life.

Clarissa asked her husband's cousins, Mr. and Mrs. James Jervis, and also an old General Monk. That made the six. Mr. Jervis had of course to take her in, and General Monk was paired with Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Derwentwater fell naturally to my share.

I don't think it was "naturally." I believe that Clarissa arranged things so on purpose. But anyhow it was very nice.

She seems so pleased that I should have met an old acquaintance in her house; and she says he is a very nice man and a thorough gentleman, with good connections and good prospects. I am half afraid she may have some sort of notion in her head of his perhaps taking a fancy to "me;" and that of course is utterly out of the question.

Quite! Completely! Absolutely! Out of the question! For, though I cannot exactly say this to Clarissa, it seems to me that he almost belongs to Millicent. I do not really mean that he belongs to her, but only that, so far as I am concerned, she has a sort of first right. He may or may not wish still to marry Millicent. I only know that up to now things may not be entirely hopeless; and I know that she cares for him. And for me to step in between—here, out of her sight, and out of her reach—if such a thing were possible, which it is not; and if I wanted it, which I do not,—for me to step in between, and to make things perfectly hopeless for her!—oh, it would be too horridly base, too awfully mean and contemptible.

What do I know of him? I—why, I have just seen him a few times, years ago, when I was almost a child. And Millicent has known him almost all her life.

One could not do such a thing. It would be impossible.

No difficulty in saying all this; matters being as they are. He and I are the merest chance acquaintances. He does not care a single atom for me, with any real caring, I mean. And I have entirely got over my childish feeling. He likes to see me, because I am connected with those old days and with Millicent. And I like to see him because—oh, because he belongs to my childish days too, and because he is so pleasant; and one always likes to meet pleasant people. Nothing more than that, however. Nothing more "could" be.

I mean, in one sense it could not. Perhaps, if I chose to take the trouble, I might in time make him like me a little better than as a mere acquaintance. I cannot be sure. It is only a "perhaps." But I have an odd sort of feeling, when with him, that if I chose, I could make him care for me. Very likely it is only a fancy; perhaps even like my silly fancy in those old days, when all the while he was laughing at me, and calling me an absurd conceited child.

And yet it was not quite only that either. For Millicent thought he was a little touched; and Millicent ought to have known if any one did. And aunt Marian thought the same; and aunt Marian is not often mistaken.

Anyhow I do not mean to take the trouble. Why should I? What would be the use? If I didn't succeed, I should feel so small; and if I did succeed, it would be so unfair to Millicent. Besides, I don't want to succeed. It would be wrong. All these years she has been brave, and patient, and good. I feel almost as if I were here for the express purpose of guarding her interests.

What if I could manage to turn his thoughts again in her direction, supposing that he has forgotten her?

Why not? Of course I must be careful how I do it; but why not? I have made a little beginning already; and I mean to follow it up.

Before they came yesterday evening, I was pretty well resolved not to mention Millicent at all, unless Mr. Derwentwater should bring forward her name. Somehow I did not keep to my resolution. Was it wise or unwise? Circumstances do sometimes alter cases,—I mean circumstances change, and then cases are altered. Besides, I broke through my resolution without meaning to do so.

Mr. Derwentwater arrived early, before any of the others. And I saw a look of surprise in his face when I came forward, almost as if for a moment, he hardly knew again who it was. I could not help being pleased, because it "did" mean something like admiration. How silly to be pleased; when after all it was my clothes, not myself. And while he was talking to Clarissa, his eyes came wondering again and again in my direction; and then I was pleased again, though I knew exactly how much it was all worth. I had on a very pretty dress, which suited me; and he has a weakness for pretty things. That was the beginning and the ending of his admiration; yet still I was glad.

Next to arrive was the General; and then Mr. and Mrs. Jervis appeared; and dinner was announced, and we all went in.

General Monk is rather deaf, and he expected all the attention that Mrs. Jervis had to give. If she turned to speak to anybody else across the table, he could not hear what she said, and he kept repeating, "Eh? What? I beg your pardon. Who was it? What was that?" Till she grew tired of answering. So she kept her attention fixed upon him, and we fell into three duets of talk.

And then, when all attempt at a general conversation was given up, Mr. Derwentwater observed: "I hardly wonder at myself for not recognising you the other day." And I knew in a moment that he had old times in his mind.

"Why?" I asked. And as he did not answer, I went on, "Oh, of course girls alter so much, coming out of childhood."

"Some more; some less. In excuse for my own stupidity, may I say that yours is a case of 'more'?"

I felt desperately inclined to say, "Is mine a pussy-cat face still?" But that would not have done at all.

"Now tell me, please, about all the old friends."

And I gave him a whole string of particulars. First as to my uncle and aunt, and then as to lots of other individuals, all of whom I knew he had known. He didn't care a rap for a single one of them, except aunt Marian; and I knew this, too. But he listened politely, and tried to put on an appearance of interest.

"Anybody else?" I said.

He helped himself to a passing entrée, and suggested, "You have not mentioned Mr. Farrars yet."

"Don't you keep up a correspondence with him?"

"I am afraid I have been remiss. It is a long while since a letter passed between us."

I told him all I could think of about Mr. Farrars. And then beginning with the youngest boy, I took them in turn upward, describing each more or less particularly, and telling what each was doing, and what were Mr. Farrars' plans for each. I only left out Amy and stopped short at Jack.

"Thanks for the masculine side of the question," he said with a twinkle. "And—"

"Amy is growing up. She is a child still, but she will soon be a woman. Not good-looking—oh, no, she never will be. None of them are; and none of them ever were, except Millicent."

Her name slipped out unintentionally; and then the business was done. And in a moment, I seemed to see myself, a girl with a pussy-cat self-satisfied face, asking him whether he thought Millicent pretty. And I seemed to hear again his little laugh at the idea.

But he did not laugh now. He gazed steadily at the table-cloth. When I said no more, he repeated slowly,—"Except Millicent,—yes."

"I don't mean that she ever was exactly handsome. It was more an interesting face." And I was angry with myself for saying "was," not "is." The word seemed to strike him. He looked up at me with startled eyes, and said, "But she—"

His face wore a singular expression; a kind of frightened paleness had come into it.

"One may often find a face interesting that is not really handsome. And I am sure Millicent's is that."

The look vanished at once; and then it flashed across me what he had imagined to be meant by my "was."

"Millicent and I have begun to see a good deal of one another,—like old days."

"Oh, indeed!" was the only answer.

"And I believe I am coming again to the same opinion that I came to then. I am beginning to think there is nobody else in the world exactly like Millicent."

He said either "Oh, indeed!" or, "No, indeed!" under his moustache. I really could not make out which it was.

I felt provoked with him. And yet what else could he say? He had given her up, and had all but been married since. Why should he be supposed to feel any special interest in her, or she in him? In fact, it would be a great impertinence on his part, if he "did" expect her to feel for him what she used to feel. But, I who know how things really are, I do want to see signs in him of not having forgotten her.

No more passed between us about Millicent. Her name did not come up again; and I could not force it on him. We had a long talk on all sorts of subjects. And when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room later, he found his way to me again, and carried on the talk.

He certainly can make himself very pleasant. I am not so much astonished now as sometimes I have been at the kind of fascination which he had for me all those years ago. Not that he fascinates me "now!" I am older, and I have seen more of life. But still he is certainly agreeable; and I enjoyed my evening immensely.

What a pity poor Millicent could not be here. I wonder how he and she would suit one another now.

Well, I shall do what I can for her when I see him again. Now that her name has been spoken between us, it will be easy to bring it in again. I shall tell him about the sort of home-life hers has been. He ought to be able to appreciate that.

It was a perfectly delicious evening, and I could hardly get to sleep at night, thinking it all over. I cannot at all feel sure whether his old love for Millicent is hopelessly dead, or whether it still just lives and might some day wake up anew. I do not believe he could answer this question himself. Certainly, he wanted very much to hear about her; and when for one moment he almost thought I meant that she was dead, he was terrified,—as one would be at the thought of any one dying whom one loved very much.

That surely means that he cares for her still. People do not feel so about the death of a mere acquaintance or even of an everyday friend.

_April 29th, Tuesday._

Monday is Clarissa's "At Home" day; and a little before tea-time in came Mr. Derwentwater. I did not know that she had told him of the day, but it seems she did, and asked him to come if he felt inclined.

I suppose he did feel inclined; at all events, he appeared, and stayed more than an hour, and was as friendly as possible. Somehow, I did not manage to bring up Millicent's name.

I thought he had only a very few days in London, but that must be a mistake. Clarissa has asked him to lunch on Thursday, and to go with us to Kew afterwards; and he has made no difficulty.

_May 2nd, Friday._

Yesterday morning Clarissa was not well, but she would not hear of giving up the expedition to Kew. She sent for a little Miss Splice, a former governess of hers and Juliet's who lives near, a kind little trotting elderly person with very few words at command, and always ready to extinguish herself for Clarissa's sake. And she went with Mr. Derwentwater and me to Kew.

I ought to have been sorry that Clarissa could not have the pleasure, but somehow I was not sorry at all. If Clarissa had been there, Mr. Derwentwater must have attended to her a good deal. Miss Splice did not seem to wish for any attention. She had nothing to say, and she evidently liked much best to be left to herself, free to enjoy the river and the views. We were always leaving her behind, or losing sight of her; and she never seemed to mind, but always turned up again placidly at the right time.

It was such a beautiful day! I had no idea before what a perfectly delightful place Kew is.

Not that I learned very much about all the different kinds of foreign plants. There did not seem to be time; we found so much to talk about.

Somehow, one can talk to certain people as one cannot possibly talk to others. And Mr. Derwentwater is one of those people. He is so attentive, and polite, and kind, and he shows such an interest in everything that one says. In those old days he was nice, but now he is very much nicer.

And I talked to him about Millicent—ever so long. I was determined that I would. We found a seat under a tree; and Miss Splice nodded comfortably off to sleep; and I thought that was a good opportunity. I brought in Millicent's name somehow,—I do not know how,—and I began talking about her almost recklessly. I was determined that I "would." I told him how very very good and devoted she was; and how she had lived for her father and sister and brothers; and how much they would all owe to her always; and how hard she had worked; and how brave and cheerful she had always been; and how everybody in the place looked up to her; and how she had read and studied even in her busy life and had kept herself up to the mark; and a great deal more than this. I just poured it all out, not waiting for him to speak; and I felt my face grow warm with excitement.

I was not looking up at him, but away among the trees, seeing a picture of Millicent and her self-denying life. And all at once it came across me that he had not said a single word for ever so long. I had been talking so hard that I had not even noticed his silence.

And I stopped short, and turned towards him suddenly, to see if he were listening. And he was looking at me—

I don't know what he meant,—in the very least! I only know that nobody has ever looked at me in exactly the same way before. He took his eyes away quietly, as soon as they met mine; and I could not say another word. My heart started off beating at such a pace that I was hardly able to breathe.

It must have been that he agreed with me, and liked to think of that brave self-forgetting life of hers. Yes, it must have been that, of course. He looked so earnest and intent, so interested. But why did he not say what he felt? Why did he not tell me how much he liked to hear about her?

There was a long pause, a kind of dead pause everywhere and in everything. It felt as if the whole world had come to a stand-still. Even the very birds seemed to stop singing, and the leaves to stop rustling. I never knew anything like it before. I could hear my own heart beating, like a big drum; and I was afraid he would hear it too. Then the leaves began to rustle again, and a chaffinch overhead started his short little song. And then I laughed and tried not to seem to know how my cheeks were burning; and I said,—

"I am afraid you will think it a case of girlish raptures."

"Not at all," he answered gravely. "It does you credit, as much as Millicent." Then another pause. "But you know I am pretty well acquainted with her character. She always had a very strong sense of duty."

And that was all he had to say.

I ought to have been vexed, angry with him for Millicent's sake. But I could not be. I was not angry at all. I could not make myself so. I could only remember that look of his which I had met so unexpectedly; and the very thought of it made me flutter all over. For it was a look which somehow seemed to belong to "me," not to Millicent.

What nonsense! I am not going to let myself be taken in a second time. I am not going to allow myself to fall into any absurd notions.

He belongs to Millicent, or if he does not, he ought. I am only the merest acquaintance, and I have no right to come between. No right whatever. Nothing more than the merest acquaintance,—while Millicent—but of course he cares for her. He could not help it, knowing her as he does. If he is left to himself, he will turn to her soon, quite naturally.

And I have to leave him alone; not to do anything which might perhaps for a little while turn his thoughts away from her.

I believe he fancies, as a good many men do, that one woman cannot possibly praise another. And so he was astonished to hear me praise Millicent heartily.

That was what it all meant. Well, he shall be astonished again. I will certainly bring up her name as often as I have a chance.

But oh, it "was" a lovely day, a perfect day all through. Like June for warmth, and like—I don't know what—for pleasantness.

I could not help thinking of that long-past excursion, and the delights of it. But I hope I am not so silly now as I was then, fancying all sorts of things to be meant that are not really meant.

This time I cannot be taken unawares. I have my eyes wide open, and I know what I am about. I know what I have to do, too, which is more. I have to think of Millicent, not of myself. I have to care for her interests, not for my own.

And if I keep clearly in mind all the time exactly what I have to do, I do not see how I can be taken by surprise.