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Two Mistakes:
Marjorie Bowen:
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Two Mistakes
by
Marjorie Bowen
Cover based on a computer-generated image
First published in The Windsor Magazine, February 1929
This e-book edition: Project Gutenberg Australia, 2023
Kate looked anxiously and regretfully at the
rather pathetic little figure in the big old chair.
KATE rose, setting down her untasted cup of tea;
after all, Jenny was only a child and she must decide for
her—she would be very happy with Charles Malleson—any
woman would be happy with Charles, surely.
"You've changed your mind?" she asked briskly. "About that
letter, I mean?"
"I did change it," muttered Jenny, irresolute
again.
"Well, I suppose you did, as you tried to get it back," said
Kate firmly, "and now I'm going to get it before Charles
reads it—and we'll hear no more of this nonsense,
please."
"Going to get it back?" echoed Jenny, half relieved, half
resentful.
"Yes, it will be delivered to-night. I shall call and ask for
it—quite simple, really. I shall make quite a good story,
you needn't worry about anything."
Jenny sighed.
"I suppose you think I am very mercenary," added Kate. "I'm
not; I've only got a little common sense. I've known ever since
we lost everything and had to start this kind of life that it
wouldn't do for you for long—you're just wilting, I know,
and Ted's a dear boy—but, well, it wouldn't be
romantic—it would be sordid. Jenny, the
responsibility and the strain would spoil his work,
too—he's got great gifts, Jenny—a crazy marriage
would ruin both of you—"
Jenny shivered; she knew that she was sensitive, indolent,
luxury-loving. Here Kate undertook all the work and all the
disagreeables of their joint life; if she moved down to the glass
studio built on the garden that was all Ted Lumley had of Home,
she would have to face everything unaided—and she
didn't really like that kind of life.
"Try and get the letter back," she said faintly. "Of course
I'm all sorts of a fool—and I couldn't face
it—really, I couldn't."
Kate looked anxiously and regretfully at the rather pathetic
little figure in the big old chair.
"You'll feel so much better when you get out of this," she
said. "Remember that you are going to stay with Mrs. Courtlands
next week—things will look so different from that
angle!"
"I suppose so," said Jenny, gazing into the fire.
Charles Malleson had induced his married sister to take in and
look after Jenny till the marriage; it was the best mutual
arrangement that they could reach to smooth away the difficulties
created by the difference in the position of the bride and groom,
for Jenny had no relatives and no money. Mrs. Courtlands had come
to the rescue with great charm and good nature, and Charles
Malleson himself had bought as many pictures as he decently could
(at wildly extravagant prices) from Kate so that there should be
no embarrassments about ready money.
The thought of this money gave poor Kate another stab; if the
engagement was broken off she would feel bound to return
it—and it was all spent! After a few modest debts had been
paid every penny had gone on equipping Jenny with clothes that
would be a mockery if she didn't go to stay with Mrs.
Courtlands.
She must get that letter back. She knew the man who
cleared the pillar-box; surely he would let her recover her
letter!
"Jenny," she said, to give the girl congenial employment while
she was away, "you can go through those frocks that came this
morning and choose which you are going to keep."
What was this letter that Jenny had just confessed to posting,
that she had run out into the miserable night to get back?
Kate, hesitating, in her little corner of a bedroom, could see
the picture, the pathetic incident of an hour ago, the rain
falling straightly in the long Chelsea street, the ghastly
twilight of a foggy afternoon closing over the city, the one
bright thing in the drabness the scarlet of a newly painted
pillar-box at the corner where the straight lines of flat-fronted
houses diverged—and then poor Jenny running along one of
these streets, fastening her belted mackintosh as she came and
bending her head, in the tattered "wet weather" felt, against the
drive of the rain—and when she reached the pillar-box she
pausing, panting, her face flushed and wet, quickly as she
glanced up and down the street!
She was too late; the letter she had come to reclaim had
gone.
Jenny was often too late, continually spoiling things by delay
and indecision.
She had bitten her pretty lip, no doubt, and her eyes, not yet
marred by work or tears, had filled with tears, of course: Jenny
could cry easily, not from pettishness or weakness, but from
acute sensibility to quickly felt emotions.
And then the poor child had hurried back to her—to Kate,
who was her harbour, her refuge, her consolation, her confessor.
How she must have both longed and dreaded to see her, for though
there was consolation to be sought, there was also a confession
to make!
Kate recalled her taking off her wet things and coming into
the dilapidated room that Kate contrived to keep so neat by
bringing forward the workmanlike air of easels and canvases,
while disguising the fact that it was also kitchen, larder and
pantry.
Jenny had always, however, rebelled at the evidences of stark
poverty that all her sister's loving art could not conceal, and
this afternoon they must have jarred on her desperately.
That hateful bit of shabby drugget on the floor, those shabby
curtains at the window, the rows of unsold canvases, like
penitents standing with their faces to the wall! The fire banked
up sparingly with cinders, the screens that hid the sink and
gas-cooker and other "horrors," as Jenny called them, and on the
table by the fire the "same old buns" from the baker's round the
corner!
Jenny had sunk into the worn arm-chair and begun to cry.
At the sound of her sobs Kate had come quickly from the inner
room where she had been changing her painting overall.
And then had come the piteous confession that had filled the
elder sister with dismay, that she was even now turning over in
her agitated mind as she reluctantly fastened her shabby coat and
peered out of the narrow window into the wet, darkening
streets.
What was it that Jenny had said—Jenny staring down at
her hands clasped in the lap of her shabby serge frock; on the
third finger of the left was the leaping light of a gorgeous
emerald...
"I do hate it," she had said, her breast heaving, her eyes
downcast. "I hate the beastly old studio—and the
carpet—and the weather—and these horrid
buns—and being poor—and—everything."
Kate, on her knees on the worn hearthrug, had looked over her
shoulder in amazement, and then the sad little confession had
come out.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" Jenny had begun to sob like a child,
hiding her face on the kindly arm of the shabby, cosy old chair.
"I've broken off my engagement," she had muttered. "I've written
and told Charles that I never cared for him and had only taken
him because of the money."
"Oh, Jenny!" Kate had stared into the fire where she beheld
many a golden dream crumble to ashes as she saw them crumble
now.
"I felt I ought to," the girl had continued defiantly. "I
don't really care, you know; it was the money and
hating this so much. Of course he's been awfully decent—but
I don't care about him. I couldn't go on pretending."
"Well," Kate had said quietly, "why are you upset, then, dear,
at having told the truth?"
At the touch of logic Jenny had become restive.
"Of course," she said irrelevantly, "I was sorry at
once. As soon as I had written I saw that I couldn't
go on living like this, and I thought how disappointed you'd
be— and, oh dear, I ran back to the pillar-box and just saw
the wretched postman disappearing!"
"Did you run after him—follow to the sorting office?"
asked Kate with a gleam of hope.
Jenny had shook her head; of course she never did anything
practical or decided.
"Perhaps you can explain it away."
"I can't," Jenny had wailed. "I just told him the
truth—flat—and now I shall have to send him this!"
She had glanced regretfully at the emerald that shone so
strangely against her poor attire.
Kate winced when she thought of that cry; the remark seemed to
give that sordidness to the affair that she had been trying to
avoid.
Of course she had known that Jenny, gay, irresponsible,
pleasure-loving, weak Jenny, had not really been in love with
Charles Malleson, but she had believed her to be very fond of him
and she had thought it a case where fondness would be enough, oh,
surely enough.
The wealthy, generous man could give Jenny all she needed, all
that Kate never had been and never would be able to give her; it
had seemed such a providence when someone so far removed from
their Bohemian world had bought one of her pictures at an
Exhibition, asked for an introduction to the artist and been
instantly enchanted by the artist's sister!
And Jenny had seemed so happy, so elated—like someone
released from prison, the future that had looked so hopeless had
seemed—well, too good to be true, as it had proved.
"Whatever made you do it, Jenny?" she had asked hopelessly.
And then, with a desperate inkling of the truth, she had added:
"You've not been seeing Ted Lumley again?"
Then Jenny had blushed and hung her head, and plunged further
into confession.
"I met him on the stairs this morning," she admitted.
"Oh, Jenny!" Kate had cried in dismay, "it's just madness!
He's as poor as we are and you could never stand it; he hasn't
the right to ask—"
"He didn't," broke in Jenny hotly. "Don't be a beast."
"I'm sorry." Kate was instantly contrite, but she had not
altered her point of view; the very idea of Jenny's marriage to
the struggling young sculptor, who might be a genius but
certainly was almost starving was, to her, disastrous.
She saw Jenny "going to pieces" under the strain of such a
life—Jenny wasn't the type—couldn't do it—all
very well to talk of love and romance, but Jenny would perish
miserably if she undertook the kind of life that Ted Lumley could
offer; at all costs it must be prevented.
So she thought, standing there, hesitant, gazing into the
gathering darkness that seemed so cold and forlorn.
Jenny, her little sister, her little spoilt, childish sister,
was obviously in her hands, for her to do as she would with.
Jenny had always obeyed her, or rather, allowed her to influence
her; and now, in this most important matter, certainly the
turning-point of Jenny's life, was she going to influence
her?
Was she going to persuade her to take this extraordinary
chance that had suddenly been offered her, or encourage her to be
faithful to the penniless young man whom it was obvious she
loved—in Jenny's light way of loving?
Life seemed difficult and complicated to Kate, and she felt,
though more with bewilderment than resentment, that it ought not
to have been either, but simple and clear.
As her own personal life was, and always had been, simple and
clear—just "the trivial round the common task" quoted so
often in the Parish Magazine that she used to help to edit, and
which was, after all, the portion of the majority.
Kate had never complained about that—she had, too, had
this little excitement of her work; she knew that she had not
much talent, but it was more than she had at first thought, and
there was some money in it too, which she had never dared at one
time to hope; not enough money, of course, but she had a small
gift of fantastical sweet imagination and she had begun to creep
in among the illustrators of children's books and the more modest
exhibitions. It was all very delightful and wonderful, and, if it
had only been a question of herself, it would have satisfied
Kate's repressed and humble nature.
But there had always been Jenny—the petted baby who in
so short a while had become the spoilt child and then the
capricious girl; the elder sister adored her because she was so
lovely and so loving and so helpless, but the responsibility had
bowed down her spirit and made her heart tremble—often
enough.
And now—what to do?
There was Jenny looking to her for guidance—poor,
pretty, silly little Jenny who had no more sense now than she had
when she was a coaxing little piece with flying curls, petted by
the fond and simple father!
Of course Jenny must marry Charles Malleson, not that gaunt,
eager boy who had nothing to offer but his unrecognised
gift— odd, thought Kate with a catch in her throat, for any
girl not to want to marry Charles Malleson—couldn't Jenny
see what she was missing? Apart from the money; quite
apart from the money.
And Kate turned on the electric light in the narrow strip of
room and looked at herself in the dingy square of mirror.
She was ten years older than Jenny and not
pretty—no, not pretty at all.
A very tired, faded-looking woman, already a woman who had
never had a chance to "do" anything for herself.
Never wanted, nor longed for, such a chance.
Yet now, sad and disturbed as she was, the sight of her own
face vexed her further—she looked, as she felt, a
failure.
People didn't like failure.
She had sometimes wistfully felt that she had been a drawback
to Jenny, encompassing her with this atmosphere of failure, of
plainness, of anxious and futile effort.
No, it must end.
Jenny must marry this rich man and go away with him into
another world, and leave her alone to struggle along her modest
way.
If she was alone, she thought wistfully, she would be quite
content—without the responsibility of Jenny.
And then she set out into the cold darkening streets, the wind
and the rain and the murk about her, and in her heart a curious
pang that bowed her spirit with depression.
For she, too, had her secret trouble, her hidden anguish that
swelled until it filled her whole being; and there was no one to
console or support her; she always had been, and must remain,
lonely, one of the odd, unwanted people who must not get in the
way of, or bore, the others.
Her errand was hateful to her, in every way hateful; poverty
had made both the sisters reserved and kept them from learning
the careless freedom of modern manners; Kate knew nothing of
anything save the shifts and vicissitudes of poverty.
And then it really seemed rather an outrageous thing to Kate,
this going alone to a man's house at this hour; the engagement
had been very sudden and not yet very long, and Kate so long a
drudge and a toiler, first in the old vicarage days when she had
helped her father with the Parish, and since his death as
bread-winner for her mother, Jenny and herself, and then for
Jenny and herself alone, that she had lost her sense of values.
Was it permissible or not, what she was doing? She felt so
foolish and so futile.
With a tremor she rang the bell of the trim mansion that
secretly awed her. Mr. Malleson was very wealthy indeed, a
connoisseur and collector, and everything about him was of a
peculiarly sumptuous quality in a quiet fashion that pleased
Kate, yet rather frightened her too, making her feel even more
stupid and plain.
She was shown into a library filled with curious books in pale
tints of vellum and faded, gilded calf, and fragrant from an
enormous bowl of apricot-coloured azaleas, and bright with a
huge, clear fire. Kate, cold and damp despite the dripping
umbrella she had resigned with a blush in the hall, stood near
the great log fire which gave out this brilliant, generous light
and warmth.
Too honest-minded to spend any of her recent windfalls on
herself, she was wearing last year's cheap velour coat and a hat
of dyed fur that Jenny called "common or garden cat"; she felt
more than ever shabby in these surroundings and ill at
ease—as if she was already a poor relation, and the small
amount of courage she had gathered up drooped and nearly died
away.
She half hoped that Mr. Malleson would prove to be out and
that she could request the return of the letter in a
note—yes, a note; could she not write to him—and
fly?
This would not be as safe and wise as seeing him, and was in
the nature of a cowardly compromise, but Kate would have
preferred it to an interview—yes, she felt cowardly, she
wondered now however she could have undertaken such an impossible
errand.
But even while she was hoping she might escape, Charles
Malleson came in and greeted her as if it was the most natural
thing in the world to see her there.
He was a spare man of over forty who had inherited a huge
chemical works that brought him a very considerable fortune, who
had travelled all over the world and seen and done most things
that lively human beings wish to see and do.
As Kate was gaining time with timid conventionalities, she
could not help a sudden silly wonder (instantly checked as
disloyal) as to what this man, so thoughtful, so intelligent, so
finished, could see in a simple little thing like Jenny. But
then, of course, Jenny was pretty; men always cared for
that—ah, yes, that was it; Jenny was pretty!
How she would bloom in these beautiful surroundings that Kate
was so conscious of—this warmth and light and luxury, that
made you feel you wanted to curl up, easily, drowsily, and go to
sleep—especially if you had come in out of the damp and
dark and wet. Kate fought off a feeling of lassitude, a desire to
sink into one of the great soft chairs and cry like a child.
It was all so difficult.
Almost too difficult for one tired, simple woman to
undertake.
And Charles Malleson was looking at her with a queer veiled
keenness, with pity, she thought, with slightly ironic pity.
Kate felt her thoughts slipping from her errand; she almost
forgot Jenny. Why was this man looking at her like that?
And how odd it seemed, to be alone here with him in this warm
and gracious room; he had switched on the light now, which
gleamed and glittered from a delicate candelabra of pinkish amber
glass. Kate noticed the lovely sparkle of that soft radiancy and
was irritated with herself for noticing it—a trifle like
that.
"You look tired," remarked the man quietly. "It is really a
horrible night—do get nearer the fire. And won't you take
your coat off? And have some coffee?"
Kate shook her head; her lips felt dry, her throat
choking— why did life have moments like this?
She was going to break down, to do something foolish. And then
she made an effort, a really desperate effort.
"I really came to get back a letter," she began bluntly.
"A letter?"
Kate felt the blood hot in her face and her throat even more
uncomfortably dry; she had never consciously told or conveyed a
deliberate lie before. That was stupid, of course; one should not
be so sensitive, so childish.
"Yes, a letter from me—it is addressed in Jenny's
writing, but it is from me—"
Why did she say that? Nervousness, it must be nervousness.
"And you want it back?"
She knew that beneath his pleasant courtesy he must be
surprised, perhaps amazed, and she plunged on desperately.
"It is about my pictures," then, in sudden terror, "not about
money—just a suggestion I made that I've completely changed
my mind about—and now I'd rather that you did not even read
about it."
"You want the letter back, unopened?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
"Of course—but," with a little smile, "I should not
think it very usual for you to change your mind."
Kate's relief was lost in a sense of guilt; she had not meant
to go so far; her intention had been to tell him that Jenny had
written something that she had changed her mind about—that
would have been the only honest way; but when she came face to
face with Charles Malleson she was afraid to pursue it; beneath
his very quiet demeanour his personality was so strong and keen
that she felt she could not offer such a tale—he would want
some explanation, and seeds of distrust and suspicion would be
sown between him and Jenny, therefore in a kind of blind panic
she had taken the whole thing on herself.
"You look rather worried," said Charles Malleson, looking down
at her where she sat in the great deep chair, leaning forward and
gazing into the fire; "it is not about this—letter?"
"Yes," replied Kate with a valiant effort to appear careless,
"it has bothered me—rather."
"Well, it need not any more. Of course you shall have it back,
unopened."
Kate rose.
"That was all I came for; I must be getting back."
"Must you? I've a lot of jolly things here I would like to
show you—"
"Oh, some other time, when I come with Jenny."
"But Jenny doesn't care for them, does she? She's frightfully
bored with everything that isn't of to-day or to-morrow," he
smiled.
"Jenny has had such a miserable time," said Kate, instantly on
the defensive, "quite the wrong sort of life—she is so
young and really has had no enjoyments at all; she will be
interested in everything in time, I'm sure."
"And you?" he asked lightly. "Haven't you had rather a
miserable time, too?"
"Oh no," said Kate valiantly. "I'm different—I'm awfully
keen on my work and determined; it's real fun to me, struggling
along in a Bohemian kind of way—"
She was so terrified that he should offer to help
her—that he should suggest she came abroad with him and
Jenny—a scheme the little sister had already passionately
brought forward and she had as passionately rejected; she felt
shaken, confused.
"You'll miss Jenny," said Charles Malleson thoughtfully.
"Yes." She was being honest now and therefore was more at her
ease. "But I shall be glad that someone else has the
responsibility of making her happy."
He smiled.
"A pretty big responsibility—with one of Jenny's
temperament."
"She is so easily pleased," protested Kate, "so grateful for
the least kindness, so warm-hearted—"
"And so spoilt," he finished, "absolutely the spoilt baby who
can never make up her mind—your work, Miss Kate, you just
indulged her—always."
Kate was a little startled at his acumen and coolness; he
ought, she thought, to have been too absorbed by Jenny's charms
to be able to see any of her faults.
"Well, you wanted a spoilt baby, I suppose," she replied with
an unsteady smile. "You wouldn't like Jenny altered?"
He did not reply at once and Kate had the extraordinary
impression that he wasn't thinking of Jenny very much; that he
was concerned with her, and with the present moment.
Of course he must be very much in love with Jenny, because it
was one of those very "unsuitable" marriages that nothing but
love could excuse. He must be very much older than Jenny; she had
never thought about that before.
But now it occurred to her how much older he was, how
different, and what an odd match it would be—this man and
poor, silly, pretty little Jenny.
"Of course," he said at length, "no one will ever be able to
alter Jenny."
Kate opened her lips, but mutely; this time she had nothing to
say, the moment seemed to have got out of her power; she began to
forget Jenny.
And of all things she must not forget Jenny; she said over to
herself deliberately that Jenny was going to marry Charles
Malleson, that she must see that they did marry; hadn't she come
to get the letter back?
Jenny's letter, breaking off the marriage. She heard his
voice, saying:
"There are so many things here that I would like to show you,
things that you would care about, I know."
"I've been here before," she said stupidly. "Yes, but with
other people."
"With Jenny." She must keep on talking about Jenny.
She was here on Jenny's business that was her only excuse for
being here at all.
"Never mind Jenny," said her host. "You came about yourself,
didn't you?"
Kate was caught by her own lie; she had said the letter was
from her. She turned her head sharply away.
"Oh, the letter, yes; but it's of no importance."
"Isn't it?"
She was tormented; certain of nothing; everything seemed
touched by folly. Was it just the money she was clutching at?
She was thinking of Jenny and Ted Lumley, how she had got
between them, persuaded her sister to deny her own
heart—
How dared she do it?—how, after all, be sure that Jenny
wouldn't be happy in poverty with her lover?—how be so
certain Ted wouldn't make good?
And then there was Charles Malleson. Was not she doing an
awful wrong to him in helping on his marriage to a girl like
Jenny, who did not love him?
She half closed her eyes with a shudder; she saw her action as
foolish, heavy with future unhappiness for all of them. It was
stupid to interfere, to meddle—
Someone had come into the room; she looked at Charles
Malleson; a servant had entered and he had several letters in his
hand.
"Here it is," he said, holding out the little envelope adorned
with Jenny's scrawl. "Now you can take it away yourself and make
sure that I don't read it."
Kate shook her head; her agitation and humiliation were such
that for a moment she could not speak.
"Something is the matter," he said quickly. "Now what?"
Kate tried to face him; but she had no courage.
"Yes, something is—I don't know if I want you to read
that letter or not."
"Want me to read it—after coming round here to take it
back? You think you might want me to read it?"
"Yes."
She stood leaning against the back of the chair by the fire,
so tormented, so weak, so futile.
She ought not to have undertaken this, she should not be here,
speaking for Jenny, deciding for Jenny.
He stood near her, waiting, with the letter in his hand.
"You said it wasn't important," he remarked. "But I think it
must be rather important. You wouldn't have come round here, like
this, if it hadn't been. And now you don't know if I'm to open it
or not—unlike you, Kate, to be in two minds."
He spoke as if he knew her very well, intimately. She felt as
if he did so know her—far better than he knew Jenny, or
Jenny knew him; and her baffled mind went back queerly to that
day he had come to her, saying he wanted Jenny. Yes, he had come
to her, the elder sister, as if she had been the mother; he had
been confused and awkward then and she had had to help him out,
she had had to say:
"Of course it is natural that you should love Jenny."
Then Jenny had come into the room, and Kate had said, in her
old-fashioned way:
"Mr. Malleson wants to speak to you, dear," and left them
together.
Odd how she went back over that now, while he stood over her
with the letter in his hand.
"I think I had better read it," he said. "Don't you?"
"I can't say, I can't think; I ought never to have
come—"
"But I've been expecting you. I wondered how long you would
let this go on."
She was chilled with fright.
"Then you know?"
He answered:
"It's been a bitter mistake, hasn't it?"
Kate, staring at him, drew farther and farther away.
"Have you never thought of me," he asked passionately, "except
as the man Jenny is going to marry?"
He was almost on her secret; in a swift panic she cried
out:
"I've got to tell you something—"
"Don't, if you would rather not." He, too, seemed to be
controlling agitation, passion, anger, too.
"I must—I've got to."
He had put the letter on a desk; she could see the white
square of it in the glow of the sparkling light, but the man was
mercifully in the warm shadows of the room.
"That letter isn't from me, it is from Jenny."
Even through her misery his comment sounded curious:
"From Jenny—didn't I say it was not like you to change
your mind?"
"But I have changed it—I've changed it now—that is
why I want you to read that letter."
"Are you sure that Jenny wants me to?" he asked. "Did she send
you to get it back?"
"No; I persuaded her to allow me to come—as you told me,
I always rule her, I don't let her think or decide for herself;
and this time I have been terribly wrong."
Kate was talking rapidly, still in a panic.
"Tell me."
"Jenny doesn't care for you; she was only pretending. And she
was too honest to keep it up—she wrote and told you
so."
There was a pause; Charles Malleson turned over the letter;
the silence was awful to the frightened woman.
"Why was she pretending?" he asked at last.
"Because of—the chance," said Kate feverishly. "It
seemed to mean everything we had ever hoped for—just two
mercenary fortune-hunters, that is what we were—you'll
simply despise us— and you'll be right—but Jenny
wasn't going through with it— you'll remember that to her
credit—and how I overrule her. I'm to blame all
through."
"Is there anyone else—for Jenny?" asked Charles
Malleson.
"Yes—there's Ted Lumley. But he hasn't a copper and I
was frightened—I persuaded her against him—I've been
a beast."
Her voice fainted away miserably; she hardly dared to think
what this renunciation meant to her; at this moment it seemed as
if the life ahead would be—unendurable. She turned
blindly towards the door; he put out a hand to stay her.
"Let me go, please," she whispered. "You must forget all about
us."
"But perhaps I could help you," he said quietly. "Won't you
give me a chance?"
"Give you a chance! I don't understand! I've finished, there's
no more to be said—"
"Sit down—give me a moment, won't you? Don't I deserve
that?"
Kate stumbled into the great chair by the fire; she did not
feel able to fight any more; her strength had gone with her
confession; she closed her eyes and the bitter tears pricked the
lids.
Charles Malleson turned aside and opened Jenny's pathetic
little letter; there was silence while he read it, broken only by
the fall of the burning logs in the wide fireplace.
Kate felt numbed and dazed; she thought in a broken way of
Jenny left behind in the miserable house with the big box of now
useless clothes—of the emerald ring that she must "give up"
like a child unclutching a toy, but more she thought of something
of her secret that she must hide up, hide—
She shuddered as she heard Charles Malleson turn and come up
behind her chair—it was all unbearable,
unbearable.
"Did you make her write this?" he asked. "Of course, I know
that she has never cared for me, but she's such a child, she
might have gone through with it—did you open her eyes?"
"No," cried Kate fiercely. "No!"
"Did you make her write this?" he asked.
"No," cried Kate fiercely. "No!"
"Why?"
"I've told you—set us down as adventurers; she's fond of
you, you might be happy—maybe she's only a fancy for
Ted—"
"Then you'd let me marry her—still—if she'd have
me?"
"That's what I don't know—yes, I believe I would. Why
not? I believe she has a better chance with you."
"You leave it, then, for me to decide?"
"Yes; I can't do anything more—I've had too much
responsibility."
She was exhausted now, she only wanted to get away; but he
would not allow her to escape, he stood between her and the
door.
"I've been wondering how long you would let this go
on—"
"So you said." She fumbled with the collar of her coat and
felt her hands stinging cold against her throat; she tried to
laugh.
"Well, you know the worst of us now—"
"I don't mean what you think I mean—there have been
mistakes. Your fault, you're obsessed—with Jenny."
Her answer seemed to come without her own volition.
"Jenny's everything, youth, prettiness, hope. I'm nothing; I
never have been. Why shouldn't I be obsessed with Jenny when
she's all I have?"
His answer seemed to come from far away, from the depths of
the lovely, warm coloured room.
"She isn't, she isn't! Jenny is nothing—never
was—you can't make anything important of Jenny—never,
poor child."
Kate held on to the chair nearest to her; she turned and
looked at him now with amazement, with reproach, with
bewilderment.
"Why did you ever bother with us at all?" she asked. "There
was no need."
"There was great need—I had to." He paused while she
struggled in vain for words, then he added: "Why did you change
your mind and let me read that letter? Was it because of
Jenny?"
Kate felt that she was losing all composure, almost all
control of her senses; she could not remember Jenny any more; she
wanted to cry out—"No, no, no, because of you, because I
feel for you what I never believed I could feel for anyone; love,
I suppose, yes, love—"
But these words were her secret, her deep and dear secret; she
must not say them, she must not admit that innermost reason why
she had wanted him to marry Jenny.
She stared at him, with her poor cold hands at her collar,
mechanically fumbling with the humble strip of fur, and he,
staring back at her, broke out:
"This is unendurable; aren't you going to tell me now, after
all?"
She did not speak, and he added roughly: "Are you still
thinking of Jenny?"
Jenny.
The name was like a flick; she felt that she had betrayed
Jenny, lost Jenny's chance, not for Jenny's sake, but for her
own. Jenny sitting at home, gazing on those fine frocks that
would have to be returned, wearing that sparkling extravagant
emerald—
She pushed past him, to escape, to run away; she made a little
sound and bit her lip.
The telephone bell rang.
"Wait," he said, "it's probably Jenny."
It was Jenny; Malleson seemed to know her very well—her
impulsive ways, her indecisions.
Jenny wanted to speak to Kate. The elder sister went,
creeping, like a whipped thing, to the telephone.
"Oh, Kate," the pretty voice came faintly, "you're still
there? Haven't you been rather a long time? Please—let him
read the letter—Ted came in—and, I really
can't—"
"You're sure?" Kate hardly knew what she said. "Sure,
Jenny?"
A little laugh came over the wires.
"Yes—quite—let him read the letter—he won't
mind—really—"
Jenny rang off.
"What does she say?" asked Malleson curiously, more than
curiously, with definite wistfulness and expectancy.
"Only that she's decided you are to read the letter," replied
Kate, again moving towards the door. "It's 'Ted, after
all—"
"Don't worry about them, they will be all right," said Charles
Malleson; then he added, "But you and I, shall we be all
right?"
She was silent, terrified and rapt at once; difficult to think
of Jenny now, difficult to think of anyone but herself and the
man speaking, the man who went on to say:
"There have been two mistakes—Jenny mistook her own
mind, and you mistook mine"; then he added, half angrily, "Oh,
couldn't you see that I wanted you?"
"You wanted me?"
"Yes; and you tried to thrust me on to Jenny—"
Kate was so exalted, not so much by what he said as by his
look, his movement towards her, that she found it easy to say,
without fear or shame now:
"Of course I have always loved you, with all my
heart—"
"And of course," he answered, taking her cold hands, "you
really knew, all along, that I have always loved you."
THE END
Project Gutenberg Australia