Part 76 (2/2)

”You are.”

”That's the end of that, I hope, darling,” she remarked, picking up the old office-coat and dropping it with charming affected disgust into the waste-paper basket.

He shouted for the clerk, who entered with some letters for signature.

Under the eyes of his wife Edwin signed them with the demeanour of a secretary of state signing the destiny of provinces, while the clerk respectfully waited.

”I've asked Maggie to come up for the week-end,” said Hilda carelessly, when they were alone together, and Edwin was straightening the desk preparatory to departure.

Since her return she had become far more friendly with Maggie than ever before,--not because Maggie had revealed any new charm, but because she saw in Maggie a victim of injustice. Nothing during the week had more severely tested Hilda's new methods of intercourse with Edwin than the disclosure of the provisions of Auntie Hamps's will, which she had at once and definitely set down as monstrous. She simply could not comprehend Edwin's calm acceptance of them, and a month earlier she would have been bitter about it. It was not (she was convinced) that she coveted money, but that she hated unfairness. Why should the Benbows have all Auntie Hamps's possessions, and Edwin and Maggie, who had done a thousand times more for her than the Benbows, nothing?

Hilda's conversation implied that the Benbows ought to be ashamed of themselves, and when Edwin pointed out that their good luck was not their fault, only a miracle of self-control had enabled her to say nicely: ”That's quite true,” instead of sneering: ”That's you all over, Edwin!” When she learnt that Edwin would receive not a penny for his labours as executor and trustee for the Benbow children, she was speechless. Perceiving that he did not care for her to discourse upon what she considered to be the wrong done to him, she discoursed upon the wrong done to Maggie--Maggie who was already being deprived by the wicked Albert of interest due to her. And Edwin had to agree with her about Maggie's case. It appeared that Maggie also agreed with her about Maggie's case. As for the Benbows, Hilda had not deigned to say one word to them on the matter. A look, a tone, a silence, had sufficed to express the whole of Hilda's mind to those Benbows.

”Oh!” said Edwin. ”So Maggie's coming for the week-end, is she? Well, that's not a bad scheme.” He knew that Maggie had been very helpful about servants, and that, the second servant having not yet arrived, she would certainly do much more work in the house than she ”made.” He pictured her and Hilda becoming still more intimate as they turned sheets and blankets and shook pillows on opposite sides of beds, and he was glad.

”Yes,” said Hilda. ”I've called there this morning.”

”And what's she doing with Minnie?”

”We've settled all that,” said Hilda proudly. Edwin had told her in detail the whole story of Minnie, and she had behaved exactly as he had antic.i.p.ated. Her champions.h.i.+p of Minnie had been as pa.s.sionate as her ruthless verdict upon Minnie's dead mistress. ”The girl's aunt was there when I called. We've settled she is to go to Stone, and Maggie and I shall do something for her, and when it's all over I may take her on as housemaid. Maggie says she probably wouldn't make a bad housemaid.

Anyhow it's all arranged for the present.”

”Then Maggie'll be without a servant?”

”No, she won't. We shall manage that. Besides, I suppose Maggie won't stay on in that house all by herself for ever! ... It's just the right size, I see.”

”Just!” said Edwin.

He was spreading over his desk a dust-sheet with a red scolloped edging which Hilda had presented to him three days earlier.

She gazed at him with composed and justifiable self-satisfaction, as if saying: ”Leave absolutely to me everything in my department, and see how smooth your life will be!”

He would never praise her, and she had a very healthy appet.i.te for praise, which appet.i.te always went hungry. But now, instead of resenting his n.i.g.g.ardly reserve, she said to herself: ”Poor boy! He can't bring himself to pay compliments; that's it. But his eyes are full of delicious compliments.” She was happy, even if apprehensive for the immediate future. There she was, established and respected in his office, which was his church and the successful rival of her boudoir.

Her plans were progressing.

She approached the real business of her call:

”I was thinking we might have gone over to see Ingpen this afternoon.”

”Well, let's.”

Ingpen, convalescent, had insisted, two days earlier, on being removed to his own house, near the village of Stockbrook, a few miles south of Axe. The departure was a surprising example of the mere power of volition on the part of a patient. The routine of hospital life had exasperated the recovering soul of this priest of freedom to such a point that doctor, matron, and friends had had to yield to a mere instinct.

”There's no decent train to go, and none at all to come back until nearly nine o'clock. And we can't cycle in this weather--at least I can't, especially in the dark.”

”Well, what about Sunday?”

”The Sunday trains are worse.”

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