You have misunderstood her motives from the first.”
I could have stood it better, I thought, as I stumbled from the pew into the aisle, if Louise had struck Rachel with her hands, or spat upon her, torn her hair, her gown.
That would be primitive and animal.
That would be fighting fair.
But this, in the quietude of the church, with Rachel absent, was slander, almost blasphemy.
“I can’t sit here and listen to you,” I said.
“I wanted your comfort and your sympathy.
If you have none to give, no matter.”
She stood up beside me, catching at my arm.
“Don’t you see I am trying to help you?” she pleaded.
“But you are so blind to everything, it’s no use.
If it’s not in Mrs. Ashley’s nature to plan the months ahead, why has she been sending her allowance out of the country week by week, month by month, throughout the winter?”
“How do you know,” I said, “that she has done that?”
“My father had means of knowing,” she answered. “These things could not be hidden, between Mr. Couch and my father, acting as your guardian.”
“Well, what if she did?” I said.
“There were debts in Florence, I have known that all along.
Creditors were pressing to be paid.”
“From one country to another?” she said.
“Is it possible?
I would not have thought so.
Isn’t it more likely that Mrs. Ashley hoped to build up something for her return, and that she spent the winter here only because she knew you came legally into your money and your property on your twenty-fifth birthday, which was yesterday?
Then, with my father no longer guardian, she could bleed you as she chose.
But there was suddenly no need.
You made her a present of everything you had.”
I could not believe it possible that a girl I knew and trusted could have so damnable a mind, and speak—that was the greatest hell—with so much logic and plain common sense, to tear apart another woman like herself.
“Is it your father’s legal mind speaking in you, or you yourself?” I said to her.
“Not my father,” she said; “you know his reserve.
He has said little to me.
I have a judgment of my own.”
“You set yourself against her from the day you met,” I said.
“A Sunday, wasn’t it, in church?
You came back to dinner and did not say a word, but sat there, at the table, with your face all stiff and proud.
You had made up your mind to dislike her.”
“And you?” she said.
“Do you remember what you said about her before she came?
I can’t forget the enmity you had for her.
And with good reason.”
There was a creaking movement from the side door near to the choir stalls. It opened, and the cleaner, a little mousy woman, Alice Tabb, crept in with broom in hand to sweep the aisles.
She glanced at us furtively, and went away behind the pulpit; but her presence was with us, and solitude had gone.
“It’s no use, Louise,” I said, “you can’t help me. I am fond of you, and you of me. If we continue talking we shall hate each other.”
Louise looked at me, her hand dropped from my arm.
“Do you love her, then, so much?” she said.
I turned away.
She was younger than myself, a girl, and she could not understand.
No one could ever understand, save Ambrose, who was dead.
“What does the future hold now for either of you?” asked Louise.
Our footsteps sounded hollow down the aisle. The shower, that had spat upon the windows, ceased.
A gleam of fitful sun lit the halo on St. Peter’s head in the south window, then left it dim once more.
“I asked her to marry me,” I said;
“I have asked her once, and twice.