Part 10 (1/2)

Miss Verney glanced up, struck by the change in Mrs. Peyton's voice.

”Ah, then you agree with him? You think it _would_ be dishonest?”

Mrs. Peyton saw that she had slipped into self-betrayal. ”My son and I have not spoken of the matter,” she said evasively. She caught the flash of relief in Miss Verney's face.

”You haven't spoken? Then how do you know how he feels about it?”

”I only judge from--well, perhaps from his not speaking.”

The girl drew a deep breath. ”I see,” she murmured. ”That is the very reason that prevents his speaking.”

”The reason?”

”Your knowing what he thinks--and his knowing that you know.”

Mrs. Peyton was startled at her subtlety. ”I a.s.sure you,” she said, rising, ”that I have done nothing to influence him.”

The girl gazed at her musingly. ”No,” she said with a faint smile, ”nothing except to read his thoughts.”

VI

Mrs. Peyton reached home in the state of exhaustion which follows on a physical struggle. It seemed to her as though her talk with Clemence Verney had been an actual combat, a measuring of wrist and eye. For a moment she was frightened at what she had done--she felt as though she had betrayed her son to the enemy. But before long she regained her moral balance, and saw that she had merely s.h.i.+fted the conflict to the ground on which it could best be fought out--since the prize fought for was the natural battlefield. The reaction brought with it a sense of helplessness, a realization that she had let the issue pa.s.s out of her hold; but since, in the last a.n.a.lysis, it had never lain there, since it was above all needful that the determining touch should be given by any hand but hers, she presently found courage to subside into inaction. She had done all she could--even more, perhaps, than prudence warranted--and now she could but await pa.s.sively the working of the forces she had set in motion.

For two days after her talk with Miss Verney she saw little of d.i.c.k. He went early to his office and came back late. He seemed less tired, more self-possessed, than during the first days after Darrow's death; but there was a new inscrutableness in his manner, a note of reserve, of resistance almost, as though he had barricaded himself against her conjectures. She had been struck by Miss Verney's reply to the anxious a.s.severation that she had done nothing to influence d.i.c.k--”Nothing,” the girl had answered, ”except to read his thoughts.” Mrs. Peyton shrank from this detection of a tacit interference with her son's liberty of action. She longed--how pa.s.sionately he would never know--to stand apart from him in this struggle between his two destinies, and it was almost a relief that he on his side should hold aloof, should, for the first time in their relation, seem to feel her tenderness as an intrusion.

Only four days remained before the date fixed for the sending in of the designs, and still d.i.c.k had not referred to his work. Of Darrow, also, he had made no mention. His mother longed to know if he had spoken to Clemence Verney--or rather if the girl had forced his confidence. Mrs. Peyton was almost certain that Miss Verney would not remain silent--there were times when d.i.c.k's renewed application to his work seemed an earnest of her having spoken, and spoken convincingly. At the thought Kate's heart grew chill.

What if her experiment should succeed in a sense she had not intended? If the girl should reconcile d.i.c.k to his weakness, should pluck the sting from his temptation? In this round of uncertainties the mother revolved for two interminable days; but the second evening brought an answer to her question.

d.i.c.k, returning earlier than usual from the office, had found, on the hall-table, a note which, since morning, had been under his mother's observation. The envelope, fas.h.i.+onable in tint and texture, was addressed in a rapid staccato hand which seemed the very imprint of Miss Verney's utterance. Mrs. Peyton did not know the girl's writing; but such notes had of late lain often enough on the hall-table to make their attribution easy.

This communication d.i.c.k, as his mother poured his tea, looked over with a face of s.h.i.+fting lights; then he folded it into his note-case, and said, with a glance at his watch: ”If you haven't asked any one for this evening I think I'll dine out.”

”Do, dear; the change will be good for you,” his mother a.s.sented.

He made no answer, but sat leaning back, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed on the fire. Every line of his body expressed a profound physical la.s.situde, but the face remained alert and guarded. Mrs. Peyton, in silence, was busying herself with the details of the tea-making, when suddenly, inexplicably, a question forced itself to her lips.

”And your work--?” she said, strangely hearing herself speak.

”My work--?” He sat up, on the defensive almost, but without a tremor of the guarded face.

”You're getting on well? You've made up for lost time?”

”Oh, yes: things are going better.” He rose, with another glance at his watch. ”Time to dress,” he said, nodding to her as he turned to the door.

It was an hour later, during her own solitary dinner, that a ring at the door was followed by the parlour-maid's announcement that Mr. Gill was there from the office. In the hall, in fact, Kate found her son's partner, who explained apologetically that he had understood Peyton was dining at home, and had come to consult him about a difficulty which had arisen since he had left the office. On hearing that d.i.c.k was out, and that his mother did not know where he had gone, Mr. Gill's perplexity became so manifest that Mrs. Peyton, after a moment, said hesitatingly: ”He may be at a friend's house; I could give you the address.”

The architect caught up his hat. ”Thank you; I'll have a try for him.”

Mrs. Peyton hesitated again. ”Perhaps,” she suggested, ”it would be better to telephone.”