Part 71 (1/2)
He paused a moment; on which, as quite vague, she appealed. ”That I 'do know' what?”
”That I've a consuming pa.s.sion for you and that it's impossible.”
”Oh impossible, my friend!” she sighed, but with a quickness in her a.s.sent.
”Very good; it interferes, the gratification of it would interfere fatally, with the ambition of each of us. Our ambitions are inferior and odious, but we're tied fast to them.”
”Ah why ain't we simple?” she quavered as if all touched by it. ”Why ain't we of the people--_comme tout le monde_--just a man and a girl liking each other?”
He waited a little--she was so tenderly mocking, so sweetly ambiguous.
”Because we're precious a.s.ses! However, I'm simple enough, after all, to care for you as I've never cared for any human creature. You have, as it happens, a personal charm for me that no one has ever approached, and from the top of your splendid head to the sole of your theatrical shoe (I could go down on my face--there, abjectly--and kiss it!) every inch of you is dear and delightful to me. Therefore good-bye.”
She took this in with wider eyes: he had put the matter in a way that struck her. For a moment, all the same, he was afraid she would reply as on the confessed experience of so many such tributes, handsome as this one was. But she was too much moved--the pure colour that had risen to her face showed it--to have recourse to this particular facility. She was moved even to the glimmer of tears, though she gave him her hand with a smile. ”I'm so glad you've said all that, for from you I know what it means. Certainly it's better for you to go away. Of course it's all wrong, isn't it?--but that's the only thing it can be: therefore it's all right, isn't it? Some day when we're both great people we'll talk these things over; then we shall be quiet, we shall be rich, we shall be at peace--let us hope so at least--and better friends than others about us will know.” She paused, smiling still, and then said while he held her hand: ”Don't, _don't_ come to-morrow night.”
With this she attempted to draw her hand away, as if everything were settled and over; but the effect of her movement was that, as he held her tight, he was simply drawn toward her and close to her. The effect of this, in turn, was that, releasing her only to possess her the more completely, he seized her in his arms and, breathing deeply ”I love you, you know,” clasped her in a long embrace. His demonstration and her conscious sufferance, almost equally liberal, so sustained themselves that the door of the room had time to open slowly before either had taken notice. Mrs. Rooth, who had not peeped in before, peeped in now, becoming in this manner witness of an incident she could scarce have counted on. The unexpected indeed had for Mrs. Rooth never been an insuperable element in things; it was her position in general to be too acquainted with all the pa.s.sions for any crude surprise. As the others turned round they saw her stand there and smile, and heard her e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e with wise indulgence: ”Oh you extravagant children!”
Miriam brushed off her tears, quickly but unconfusedly. ”He's going away, the wretch; he's bidding us farewell.”
Peter--it was perhaps a result of his acute agitation--laughed out at the ”us” (he had already laughed at the charge of puerility), and Mrs.
Rooth went on: ”Going away? Ah then I must have one too!” She held out both her hands, and Sherringham, stepping forward to take them, kissed her respectfully on each cheek, in the foreign manner, while she continued: ”Our dear old friend--our kind, gallant gentleman!”
”The gallant gentleman has been promoted to a great post--the proper reward of his gallantry,” Miriam said. ”He's going out as minister to some impossible place--where is it?”
”As minister--how very charming! We _are_ getting on.” And their companion languished up at him with a world of approval.
”Oh well enough. One must take what one can get,” he answered.
”You'll get everything now, I'm sure, shan't you?” Mrs. Rooth asked with an inflexion that called back to him comically--the source of the sound was so different--the very vibrations he had heard the day before from Lady Agnes.
”He's going to glory and he'll forget all about us--forget he has ever known such low people. So we shall never see him again, and it's better so. Good-bye, good-bye,” Miriam repeated; ”the brougham must be there, but I won't take you. I want to talk to mother about you, and we shall say things not fit for you to hear. Oh I'll let you know what we lose--don't be afraid,” she added to Mrs. Rooth. ”He's the rising star of diplomacy.”
”I knew it from the first--I know how things turn out for such people as you!” cried the old woman, gazing fondly at Sherringham. ”But you don't mean to say you're not coming to-morrow night?”
”Don't--don't; it's great folly,” Miriam interposed; ”and it's quite needless, since you saw me to-day.”
Peter turned from the mother to the daughter, the former of whom broke out to the latter: ”Oh you dear rogue, to say one has _seen_ you yet!
You know how you'll come up to it--you'll be beyond everything.”
”Yes, I shall be there--certainly,” Peter said, at the door, to Mrs.
Rooth.
”Oh you dreadful goose!” Miriam called after him. But he went out without looking round at her.
BOOK SEVENTH
XLII