She had finished her tea, and put the cup and saucer back on the tray.
Once again I was aware of her hands, narrow and small and very white, and I wondered if Ambrose had called them city-bred.
She wore two rings, fine stones both of them, on her fingers, yet they seemed to clash in no way with her mourning, nor be out of keeping with her person.
I was glad I had the bowl of my pipe to hold, and the stem to bite upon; it made me feel more like myself and less like a sleepwalker, muddled by a dream.
There were things I should be doing, things I should be saying, and here was I sitting like a fool before the fire, unable to collect my thoughts or my impressions.
The day, so long-drawn-out and anxious, was now over, and I could not for the life of me decide whether it had turned to my advantage or gone against me.
If only she had borne some resemblance to the image I had created I would know better what to do, but now that she was here, beside me, in the flesh, the images seemed fantastic crazy things that all turned into one another and then faded into darkness.
Somewhere there was a bitter creature, crabbed and old, hemmed about with lawyers; somewhere a larger Mrs. Pascoe, loud-voiced, arrogant; somewhere a petulant spoiled doll, with corkscrew curls; somewhere a viper, sinuous and silent. But none of them was with me in this room.
Anger seemed futile now, and hatred too, and as for fear—how could I fear anyone who did not measure up to my shoulder, and had nothing remarkable about her save a sense of humor and small hands?
Was it for this that one man had fought a duel, and another, dying, written to me and said,
“She’s done for me at last, Rachel my torment?”
It was as though I had blown a bubble in the air, and stood by to watch it dance; and the bubble had now burst.
I must remember, I thought to myself, nearly nodding by the flickering fire, not to drink brandy another time after a ten-mile walk in the rain; it dulls the senses and it does not ease the tongue.
I had come to fight this woman and I had not even started.
What was it she had said about aunt Phoebe’s saddle?
“Philip,” said the voice, very quiet, very low, “Philip, you’re nearly asleep.
Will you please get up and go to bed?”
I opened my eyes with a jerk.
She was sitting watching me, her hands in her lap.
I stumbled to my feet, and nearly crashed the tray.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “it must have been because I was sitting cramped there on that stool, it made me sleepy.
I usually stretch my legs out in the library.”
“You took a lot of exercise today too, didn’t you?” she said.
Her voice was innocent enough and yet… What did she mean?
I frowned, and stood staring down at her, determined to say nothing.
“If it’s fine then tomorrow morning,” she said, “will you really find a horse for me that will be steady and quiet, so that I can sit up on him and go and see the Barton acres?”
“Yes,” I said, “if you want to go.”
“I needn’t bother you; Wellington shall lead me.”
“No, I can take you.
I have nothing else to do.”
“Wait though,” she said, “you forget it will be Saturday.
That’s the morning you pay the wages.
We’ll wait till afternoon.”
I looked down at her, nonplussed.
“Great heavens,” I said, “how in the world do you know that I pay the wages on Saturday?”
To my dismay and great embarrassment, her eyes grew bright suddenly, and wet, as they had done earlier when she talked of my tenth birthday.
And her voice became much harder than before. “If you don’t know,” she said, “you have less understanding than I thought.
Stay here a moment, I have a present for you.”
She opened the door and passed into the blue bedroom opposite, and returned within a moment carrying a stick in her hand.
“Here,” she said, “take it, it’s yours.
Everything else you can sort out and see another time, but I wanted to give you this myself, tonight.”
It was Ambrose’s walking stick.
The one he always used, and leaned upon.
The one with the gold band, and the dog’s head on the top carved in ivory.
“Thank you,” I said awkwardly, “thank you very much.”
“Now go,” she said, “please go, quickly.”
And she pushed me from the room, and shut the door.
I stood outside, holding the stick in my hands.
She had not given me time even to wish her good night.
No sound came from the boudoir, and I walked slowly down the corridor to my own room. I thought of the expression in her eyes as she gave me the stick.