Part 52 (1/2)
And the amus.e.m.e.nt this memory makes hangs about Sally's lips as the two sit on into a pause of silence.
The face of the mother does not catch the amus.e.m.e.nt, but remains grave and thoughtful. She does not speak; but the handsome eyes that rest so lovingly on the speaker are full of something from the past--some record that it would be an utter bewilderment to Sally to read--a bewilderment far beyond that crux of the moment which maybe has struck her young mind for the first time--the old familiar puzzle of the change that comes to all of us in our transition from first to last experience of the strange phenomenon we call a friend. Sally can't make it out--the way a silly lad, love-struck about her indifferent self so short a while back, has become a totally altered person, the husband of her schoolmate, an actual ident.i.ty of life and thought and feeling; he who was in those early days little more than a suit of clothes and a new prayer-book.
But if that is so strange to Sally, how measurelessly stranger is she herself to her mother beside her! And the man they are waiting and watching for, who is somewhere between this and St. Egbert's station in Padlock's venerable 'bus, what a crux is _he_, compared now to that intoxicated young lover of two-and-twenty years ago, in that lawn-tennis garden that has pa.s.sed so utterly from his memory! And a moment's doubt, ”But--has it?” is caught and absorbed by what seemed to Rosalind now an almost absurd fact--that, a week before, he had been nothing but a _fidus Achates_ of that other young man provided to make up the lawn-tennis set, and that it was that other young man at first, not he, that belonged to _her_. And he had changed away so easily to--who was it? Jessie Nairn, to be sure--and left the coast clear for his friend. Whatever now _was_ his name? Oh dear, what a fool was Rosalind! said she to herself, to have half let slip that it was _he_ that was Fenwick, and not Gerry at all. All this compares itself with Sally's experience of Bradshaw's metamorphosis, and her own seems the stranger.
Then a moment of sharp pain that she cannot talk to Sally of these things, but must lead a secret life in her own silent heart. And then she comes back into the living world, and finds Sally well on with the development of another topic.
”Of course, poor dears! They've not played a note together since the row. It's been nothing but Kensington Gardens or the Albert Hall. But I'm afraid he's no better. If only he _could_ be, it would make all the difference.”
”What's that, darling? _Who_ could be...? Not your father?” For, as often as not, Rosalind would speak of her husband as Sally's father.
”Not Jeremiah--no. I was talking about Julius B. and his nervous system. Wouldn't it?”
”Wouldn't it what?”
”Make all the difference? I mean that he could get his violin-playing back. I told you about that letter?”
”No--what letter?”
”From an agent in Paris. Rateau, I think, was the name. Had heard Signor Carissimi had recovered his health completely, and was playing. Hoped he might be honoured with his instructions to make his arrangements in Paris, as he had done so four years ago. Wasn't it aggravating?”
”Does it make any difference?”
”Why, of course it does, mother darling. The aggravation! Just think now! Suppose he could rely on ten pounds a night, fancy that!”
”Suppose he could!... Yes, that would be nice.” But there is a preoccupation in her tone, and Sally wants sympathy to be drawn with a vigorous outline.
”What's my maternal parent thinking about, as grave as a judge?
Jeremiah's all right, mammy darling! _He's_ not killed in a railway accident. Catch _him_!” This is part of a systematized relations.h.i.+p between the two. Each always discredits the possibility of mishap to the other. It might be described as chronic reciprocal Christian Science.
”I wasn't thinking of Gerry.” Which is true in a sense, as she does not think of the Gerry her daughter knows. And the partial untruth does not cross her mind--a tacit recognition of the powers of change.
”I was wool-gathering.”
”No--what _was_ she thinking of?” For some reason the third person is thought more persuasive than the second.
”Thinking of her kitten.” And this is true enough, as Rosalind is really always thinking of Sally, more or less.
”We-ell, _I'm_ all right. What's the matter with _me_?”
”Nothing at all that I know of, darling.” But it does cross the speaker's mind that the context of circ.u.mstances might make this an opportunity for getting at some information she wants. For Sally has remained perfectly inscrutable about Conrad Vereker, and Rosalind has been asking herself whether it is possible that, after all, there _is_ nothing. She doesn't know how to set about it, though. Perhaps the best thing would be to take a leaf out of Sally's own book, and go straight to the bull's-eye.
”Do you really want to know what I was thinking of, Sallykin?” But no sooner has she formulated the intention of asking a question, and allowed the intention to creep into her voice than Sally knows all about it.
”As if I don't know already. You mean me and Prosy.”
”Of course. But how did you know?”
”Mammy _dear_! As if I was born yesterday! If you want people not to know things, you mustn't have delicate inflexions of voice. I knew you were going to catechize about Prosy the minute you got to 'did I really want to know.'”
”But I'm not going to catechize, chick. Only when you ask me what I'm thinking about, and really want to know, I tell you. I _was_ thinking about you and Conrad Vereker.” For some mysterious reason this mention of his name in full seems to mature the conversation, and make clearer definition necessary.