The Old Things


MRS. GERETH had said she would go with the rest to church, but suddenly it seemed to her that she should not be able to wait even till church-time for relief : breakfast, at Waterbath, was a punctual repast, and she had still nearly an hour on her hands. She prepared, in her room, for the little rural walk (she knew the church to be near), and on her way down again, passing through corridors, observing imbecilities of decoration, the æsthetic misery of the big, commodious house, she felt the displeasure of the evening before violently aggravated, — a renewal, in her spirit, of that secret pain unfailingly inflicted by ugliness and stupidity. Why did she consent to such contacts, why did she so rashly expose herself ? She had had, Heaven knew, her reasons, but the whole experience was to be sharper than she had feared. To get away from it and out into the air, into the presence of the sky and the trees, the flowers and the birds, was a pressing nervous necessity. The flowers at Waterbath would probably go wrong in color, and the nightingales sing out of tune ; but she remembered to have heard the place described as possessing those advantages that are usually spoken of as natural. There were advantages enough that it clearly did n’t possess. It was hard for her to believe that a woman could look presentable who had been kept awake all night by the wall-paper in her room ; yet none the less, as in her fresh widow’s weeds she rustled across the hall, she was sustained by the consciousness, which always added to the unction of her social Sundays, that she was, as usual, the only person in the house incapable of wearing in her preparation the horrible stamp of the same exceptional smartness that would be conspicuous in a grocer’s wife. She would rather have perished than have looked endimanchée.

She was, fortunately, not challenged, the hall being empty, with the other women engaged, precisely, in arraying themselves to that dire end. Once in the grounds, she recognized that, with a site, a view that struck the note, set an example to its inmates, Waterbath ought to have been charming. How she herself, with such elements to handle, would have taken the wise hint of nature ! Suddenly, at the turn of a walk, she came on a member of the party, a young lady, seated on a bench in deep and lonely meditation. She had observed the girl at dinner and afterwards : she was always looking at girls with an apprehensive or speculative reference to her son. Deep in her heart was a conviction that Owen would, in spite of all her spells, marry at last a frump; and this from no evidence that she could have represented as adequate, but simply from her deep uneasiness, her belief that such a special sensibility as her own could have been inflicted on a woman only as a source of suffering. It would be her fate, her discipline, her cross, to have a frump brought hideously home to her. This girl, one of the two Vetches, had no beauty, but Mrs. Gereth, scanning the dullness for a sign of life, had been straightway able to classify such a figure as the least, for the moment, of her afflictions. Fleda Vetch was dressed with an idea, though perhaps with not much else ; and that made a bond when there was none other, especially as in this case the idea was real, not imitation. Mrs. Gereth had long ago generalized the truth that the temperament of the frump is amply consistent with a certain usual prettiness. There were five girls in the party, and the prettiness of this one, slim, pale, and black-haired, was less likely than that of the others ever to occasion an exchange of platitudes. The two less developed Brigstocks, daughters of the house, were in particular tiresomely “ lovely.” A second glance, this morning, at the young lady before her conveyed to Mrs. Gereth the soothing assurance that she also was guiltless of looking hot and fine. They had had no talk as yet, but this was a note that would effectually introduce them if the girl should show herself in the least conscious of their community. She got up from her seat with a smile that but partly dissipated the prostration Mrs. Gereth had recognized in her attitude. The elder woman drew her down again, and for a minute, as they sat together, their eyes met and sent out mutual soundings. "Are you safe ? Can I utter it ? ” each of them said to the other, quickly recognizing, almost proclaiming, their common need to escape. The tremendous fancy, as it came to be called, that Mrs. Gereth was destined to take to Fleda Vetch virtually began with this discovery that the poor child had been moved to flight even more promptly than herself. That the poor child no less quickly perceived how far she could now go was proved by the immense friendliness with which she instantly broke out, “ Is n’t it too dreadful ? ”

“ Horrible — horrible ! ” cried Mrs. Gereth, with a laugh, “ and it’s really a comfort to be able to say it.” She had an idea, for it was her ambition, that she successfully made a secret of that awkward oddity, her liability to be rendered unhappy by the presence of displeasing objects. Her passion for the exquisite was the cause of this, but it was a passion she never advertised nor gloried in, contenting herself with letting it regulate her steps and show quietly in her life, remembering that there are few things more soundless than a deep devotion. She was therefore struck with the acuteness of the little girl who had already put a finger on her hidden spring. What was dreadful, what was horrible, was the intimate ugliness of Waterbath, and it was that phenomenon these ladies talked of while they sat in the shade and drew refreshment from the great tranquil sky, to which no blue saucers were tacked. It was an ugliness fundamental and systematic, the result of the abnormal nature of the Brigstocks, from whose composition the principle of taste had been scrupulously omitted. In the arrangement of their home, some other principle, remarkably active, but uncanny and obscure, had operated instead, with consequences depressing to behold, consequences that took the form of a universal futility. The house was bad, in all conscience, but it might have passed if they had only let it alone. This saving mercy was beyond them ; they had smothered it with trumpery ornament and scrapbook art. with strange excrescences and bunchy draperies, with gimcracks that might have been keepsakes for maid-servants and nondescript conveniences that might have been prizes for the blind. They had gone wildly astray over carpets and curtains ; they had an infallible instinct for disaster, and were so cruelly doom-ridden that it rendered them almost tragic. Their drawing-room, Mrs. Gereth lowered her voice to mention, caused her face to burn, and each of the new friends confided to the other that in her own apartment she had given way to tears. There was in one of them a set of comic water-colors, a family joke by a family genius, and in the other a souvenir from some recent exhibition, that they shudderingly alluded to. The house was perversely full of souvenirs of places even more ugly than itself, and of things it would have been a bounden duty to forget. The worst horror was the acres of varnish, something advertised and smelly, with which everything was smeared ; it was Fleda Vetch’s conviction that the application of it, by their own hands and hilariously shoving each other, was the amusement of the Brigstocks on rainy days.

When, as criticism deepened, Fleda dropped the suggestion that some people would perhaps see something in Mona, Mrs. Gereth caught her up with a groan of protest, a smothered cry of “ Oh, my dear! ” Mona was the eldest of the three, the one Mrs. Gereth most suspected. She confided to her young friend that it was her suspicion that had brought her to Waterbath ; and this was going very far, for on the spot, as a refuge, a remedy, she had clutched at the idea that something might be done with the girl before her. It was her fancied exposure, at any rate, that had sharpened the shock of the place ; made her ask herself, with a terrible chill, if fate could really be plotting to saddle her with a daughter-in-law out of such a house. She had seen Mona in her appropriate setting, and she had seen Owen, handsome and stupid, dangle beside her ; but the effect of these first hours had happily not been to darken the prospect. It was clearer to her that she could never accept Mona, but it was after all by no means certain that Owen would ask her to. He had sat by somebody else at dinner, and afterwards he had talked to Mrs. Firmin, who was common enough, but, fortunately, married. His stupidity (which in her need of expansion she almost named to Fleda) had two aspects: one of them his monstrous lack of taste, the other his exaggerated prudence. If it should come to a question of carrying Mona with a high hand, there would be no need to worry, for that was rarely his manner of proceeding.

Mrs. Gereth had begun to say a word to her companion about Poynton (Fleda had asked if it was n’t wonderful), when she heard a sound of voices that made her stop short. The next moment she rose to her feet, and Fleda could see that her alarm was by no means quenched. Behind the place where they had been sitting the ground dropped with a certain steepness, forming a long grassy bank, up which Owen Gereth and Mona Brigstock, dressed for church, but making a familiar joke of it, were in the act of scrambling and helping each other. When they had reached the even ground, Fleda was able to read the meaning of the exclamation in which Mrs. Gereth had expressed her reserves on the subject of Miss Brigstock’s personality. Miss Brigstock had been laughing and even romping, but the circumstances had n’t contributed the ghost of an expression to her countenance. Tall and straight and fair, long-limbed and strangely festooned, she stood there without a look in her eye or any perceptible intention of any sort in any other feature. She belonged to the type in which speech is an unaided emission of sound, and the secret of being is impenetrably and incorruptibly kept. Her expression would probably have been beautiful if she had had one, but whatever she communicated she communicated, in a manner best known to herself, without signs. This was not the case with Owen Gereth, who had plenty of them, and all very simple and natural. Robust and artless, a bouncing boy but a gentleman, he looked pointlessly active and pleasantly dull. Like his mother and like Fleda Vetch, but not for the same reason, this young pair had come out to take a turn before church.

The meeting of the two couples was sensibly awkward, and Fleda, who was sagacious, took the measure of the shock inflicted on Mrs. Gereth. There had been intimacy — oh yes, intimacy as well as puerility — in the horse-play of which they had just had a glimpse. The party began to stroll together to the house, and Fleda had again a sense of Mrs. Gereth’s quick management in the way the lovers, or whatever they were, found themselves separated. She strolled behind with Mona, the mother possessing herself of her son, her exchange of remarks with whom, however, remained, as they went, suggestively inaudible. That member of the party in whose intenser consciousness we shall most profitably seek a reflection of the little drama with which we are concerned received an even livelier impression of Mrs. Gereth’s intervention from the fact that, ten minutes later, on the way to church, still another pairing had been effected. Owen walked with Fleda, and it was an amusement to the girl to feel sure that this was by his mother’s direction. Fleda had other amusements as well: such as noting that Mrs. Gereth was now with Mona Brigstock ; such as observing that she was all affability to that young woman ; such as reflecting that, masterful and clever, with a great bright spirit, she was one of those who impose themselves as an influence; such as feeling, finally, that Owen Gereth was singularly handsome and admirably stupid. This young person had, even from herself, wonderful secrets of delicacy and pride ; but she came as near distinctness as in the consideration of such matters she had ever yet come at all in now surrendering herself to the idea that it was of a pleasant effect and rather remarkable to be stupid without offense, — of a pleasanter effect and more remarkable, indeed, than to be clever and horrid. Owen Gereth, at any rate, with his inches and his absence of effort, was neither of these latter things. She herself was prepared, if she should ever marry, to contribute all the cleverness, and she liked to think that her husband would be a force grateful for direction. She was in her small way a spirit of the same family as Mrs. Gereth. On that flushed, overflowing Sunday a great matter occurred; her little life became aware of a singular quickening. Her meagre past fell away from her like a garment of the wrong fashion, and as she came up to town on the Monday, what she stared at, from the train, in the suburban fields, was a future full of the things she particularly loved.


These were neither more nor less than the things with which she had had time to learn from Mrs. Gereth that Poynton was full. Poynton, in the south of England, was this lady’s established, or rather her disestablished home, having now duly passed into the possession of her son. The father of the boy, an only child, had died two years before, and Owen was occupying, in London, with his mother, for May and June, a house good-naturedly lent them by Colonel Gereth, their uncle and brother-inlaw. His mother had laid her hand so engagingly on Fleda Vetch that in a very few days the girl knew it was possible to suffer in Cadogan Place almost as much as they had Suffered at Waterbath. The kind colonel’s house was also an ordeal, but the two women, for the ensuing month, had at least the compensation of suffering together. The great drawback of Mrs. Gereth’s situation was that, thanks to the rare perfection of Poynton, she was condemned to suffer almost wherever she turned. She had lived for a quarter of a century in such warm closeness with the beautiful that, as she frankly admitted, life had become for her a kind of fool’s paradise. She did n’t say it in so many words, but Fleda could see she held that there was nothing in England to compare to Poynton. There were places much grander and richer, but there was no such complete work of art, nothing that would appeal so to those who were really informed. Fortune, in putting such elements into her hand, had given her an inestimable chance : oh, she knew how rarely well things had gone with her, and that she had tasted a happiness vouchsafed indeed to few.

There had been, in the first place, the exquisite old house itself, early Jacobean, supreme in every part: it was a provocation, an inspiration, a matchless canvas for the picture. Then there had been her husband’s sympathy and generosity, his knowledge and love, their perfect accord and beautiful life together, twentyfour years of planning and seeking, a long, sunny harvest of taste and curiosity. Lastly, she never denied, there had been her personal gift, the genius, the passion, the patience of the collector, — a patience, an almost infernal cunning, that had enabled her to do it all with a limited command of money. There would n’t have been money enough for any one else, she said with pride, but there had been money enough for her. They had saved on lots of things in life, and there were lots of things they had n’t had, but they had had in every corner of Europe their swing among the Jews. It was fascinating to poor Fleda, who had n’t a penny in the world nor anything nice at home, and whose only treasure was her subtle mind, to hear this genuine English lady, fresh and fair, young at fifty, declare with gayety and conviction that she was herself the greatest Jew who had ever tracked a victim. Fleda, with her parents dead, had n’t so much even as a home, and her nearest chance of one was that there was some appearance her sister would become engaged to a curate. Her grandfather paid some of her bills, but he did n’t like her to live with him ; and she had lately, in Paris, with several hundred other young women, spent a year in a studio, arming herself for the battle of life by a course with an impressionist painter. She was determined to work, but her impressions, or somebody’s else, were as yet her only material. Mrs. Gereth had told her she liked her because she had an extraordinary flair ; but under the circumstances a flair was a questionable boon : with the particular springs she had hitherto known there would have been more comfort in a chronic catarrh. She was constantly summoned to Cadogan Place, and before the month was out was kept to stay, to pay a visit of which the end, it was agreed, should have nothing to do with the beginning. She had a sense, partly exultant and partly alarmed, of having quickly become necessary to her imperious friend, who indeed gave a reason quite sufficient for it in telling her there was nobody else who understood. From Mrs. Gereth, in these days, there was an immense deal to understand, though it might be freely summed up in the circumstance that she was wretched. She told Fleda that she could n’t completely know why till she should have seen the things at Poynton. Fleda could perfectly grasp this connection, which was exactly one of the matters that, in their inner mystery, were a blank to everybody else.

The girl had a promise that the wonderful house should be shown her early in July, when Mrs. Gereth would return to it as to her home ; but even before this initiation she put her finger on the spot that, in the poor lady’s troubled soul, ached the hardest. This was the misery that haunted her, the dread of the inevitable surrender. What Fleda had to sit up to was the confirmed appearance that Owen Gereth would marry Mona Brigstock, marry her in his mother’s teeth, and that such an act would have incalculable bearings. They were present to Mrs. Gereth, her companion could see, with a vividness that at moments almost ceased to be that of sanity. She would have to give up Poynton, and give it up to a product of Waterbath, — that was the wrong that rankled, the humiliation at which Fleda would be able adequately to shudder only when she should know the place. She did know Waterbath, and she despised it, — she had that qualification for sympathy. Her sympathy was very real, for she read deep into the matter ; she stared, aghast, as it. came home to her for the first time, at the cruel English custom of the expropriation of the lonely mother. Mr. Gereth had apparently been a very amiable man, but Mr. Gereth had left things in a way that made the girl marvel. The house and its contents had been treated as a single splendid object; everything was to go straight to his son, and his widow was to have a maintenance and a cottage in another county. No account whatever had been taken of her relation to her treasures, of the passion with which she had waited for them, worked for them, picked them over, made them worthy of each other and the house, watched them, loved them, lived with them. He appeared to have assumed that she would settle questions with her son. that he could depend upon Owen’s affection. And in truth, as poor Mrs. Gereth inquired, how could he possibly have had a prevision—he who turned his eyes instinctively from everything displeasing — of anything so abnormal as a Brigstock ? He had been in ugly houses enough, but had escaped that particular nightmare. Nothing so perverse could have been expected to happen as that the heir to the loveliest thing in England should be inspired to hand it over to a girl so exceptionally tainted. Mrs. Gereth spoke of poor Mona’s taint as if to mention it were almost a violation of decency, and a person who had listened without enlightenment would have wondered of what lapse the girl had been, or had indeed not been guilty. But Owen from a boy had never cared, had never had the least pride or pleasure in his home.

“Well, then, if he does n’t care” — Fleda exclaimed, with some impetuosity; stopping short, however, before she completed her sentence.

Mrs. Gereth looked at her rather hard. “ If he does n’t care ? ”

Fleda hesitated; she had not quite had a definite idea. “ Well — he ’ll give them up.”

“ Give what up ? ”

“ Why, those beautiful things.”

“ Give them up to whom ? ” Mrs. Gereth asked, staring.

“To you, of course,— to enjoy, to keep for yourself.”

“ And leave his house as bare as your hand ? There’s nothing in it that is n’t precious.”

Fleda considered ; her friend had taken her up with a smothered ferocity by which she was slightly disconcerted. “ I don’t mean, of course, that he should surrender everything; but he might let you pick out the things to which you ’re most attached.”

“ I think he would, if he were free,” said Mrs. Gereth.

“ And do you mean, as it is, that she ’ll prevent him ? ” Mona Brigstock, between these ladies, was now nothing but “she.”

“ By every means in her power.”

“ But surely not because she understands and appreciates them ? ”

“ No.” Mrs. Gereth replied, “ but because they belong to the house, and the house belongs to Owen. If I should wish to take anything, she would simply say, with that motionless mask, ‘ It goes with the house.’ And day after day, in the face of every argument, of every consideration of generosity, she would repeat, without winking, in that dry, dead voice, ‘ It goes with the house, — it goes with the house.’ In that attitude they ’ll shut themselves up.”

Fleda was struck, was even a little startled, with the way Mrs. Gereth had turned this over, — had faced, if indeed only to recognize its futility, the notion of a battle with her only son. These words led her to make an inquiry which she had not thought it discreet to make before ; she brought out the idea of the possibility, after all, of her friend’s continuing to live at Poynton. Would they really wish to proceed to extremities ? Was no good-humored, graceful compromise to be imagined or brought about ? Could n’t the same roof cover them ? Was it so very inconceivable that a married son should, for the rest of her days, share with so charming a mother the home she had devoted more than a score of years to making beautiful for him ? Mrs. Gereth hailed this question with a wan, compassionate smile ; she replied that a common household, in such a case, was exactly so inconceivable that Fleda had only to glance over the fair face of the English land to see how few people had ever conceived it. It was always thought a wonder, a "mistake,” a piece of overstrained sentiment; and she confessed that she was as little capable of a flight of that sort as Owen himself. Even if they both had been capable, they would still have Mona’s hatred to reckon with. Fleda’s breath was sometimes taken away by the great bounds and elisions which, on Mrs. Gereth’s lips, the course of discussion could take. This was the first she had heard of Mona’s hatred, though she certainly had not needed Mrs. Gereth to tell her that in close quarters that young lady would prove secretly mulish. Subsequently, Fleda recognized, indeed, that perhaps almost any girl would hate a person who should be so markedly averse to becoming her mother-in-law. Before this, however, in conversation with her young friend, Mrs. Gereth furnished a more vivid motive for her despair by asking how she could possibly be expected to sit there with the new proprietors and accept — or call it, for a day, endure— the horrors they would perpetrate in the house. Fleda reasoned that they would n’t, after all, smash things nor burn them up ; and Mrs. Gereth admitted, when pushed, that she did n’t quite mean they would. What she did mean was that they would neglect them, slight them, leave them to clumsy servants (there was n’t an object of them all but should be handled with perfect love), and in many cases probably wish to replace them by pieces that would answer some vulgar modern notion of the convenient. Above all, she saw in advance, with dilated eyes, the abominations they would inevitably mix up with them, — the maddening relics of Waterbath, the little brackets and pink vases, the sweepings of bazaars, the family photographs and favorite texts, the “ household art ” and household piety of Mona’s early home. Was n’t it enough simply to contend that Mona would approach Poynton in the spirit of a Brigstock, and that in the spirit of a Brigstock she would deal with her acquisition ? Did Fleda really see her, Mrs. Gereth demanded, spending the remainder of her days with such a creature’s elbow in her eye ?

Fleda had to declare that she certainly did n’t, and that Waterbath had been a warning it would be madness to overlook. At the same time she privately reflected that they were taking a great deal for granted, and that, inasmuch as, to her knowledge, Owen Gereth had positively denied that he was engaged, the ground of their speculations was by no means firm. It seemed to our young lady that, in a difficult position, Owen conducted himself with some natural art; treating this domesticated confidant of his mother’s wrongs with a simple civility that almost troubled her conscience, so freely she reflected that she might have had for him the air of siding with that lady against him. She wondered if he would ever know how little, really, she did this, and that she was there, since Mrs. Gereth had insisted, not to betray, but essentially to protect him. The fact that his mother disliked Mona Brigstock might have made him dislike the object of her preference, and it was detestable to Fleda to remember that she might have appeared to him to offer herself as an exemplary contrast. It was clear enough, however, that the poor young man had no more sense for a motive than a deaf man for a tune, a limitation by which, after all, she could gain as well as lose. He came and went very freely on the business with which London abundantly furnished him, but he found time more than once to say to her, "It ’s awfully nice of you to look after Mummy.”As well as his quick speech, which shyness made obscure, — it was usually as desperate as a “ rush ” at some violent game, — his child’s eyes in his man’s face put it to her that, you know, this really meant a good deal for him and that he hoped she would stay on. With a girl in the house who, like herself, was clever, Mummy was conveniently occupied ; and Fleda found a beauty in the candor and even in the modesty which apparently kept him from suspecting that two such wiseheads could possibly be occupied with Owen Gereth.


They went, at last, the wiseheads, down to Poynton, where poor palpitating Fleda had the full revelation. “ Now do you know how I feel ? ” Mrs. Gereth asked when, in the wonderful hall, three minutes after their arrival, her young companion dropped on a seat, with a soft gasp and a roll of dilated eyes. The answer came clearly enough, and in the rapture of that first walk through the house Fleda Vetch took the total measure. She perfectly understood how Mrs. Gereth felt, — she had understood but meagrely before ; and the two women embraced with tears over the tightening of their bond, — tears which, on the girl’s part, were the natural and usual sign of her submission to perfect beauty. It was not the first time she had cried for the joy of admiration, but it was the first time the mistress of Poynton, often as she had shown her house, had been present at such an exhibition. She exulted in it; it quickened her own tears ; she assured her companion that such an occasion made the poor old place fresh to her again and more precious than ever. Yes, nobody had ever, that way, felt what she had achieved : people were so grossly ignorant, and everybody, even the knowing ones, as they thought themselves, more or less dense. What Mrs. Gereth had achieved was indeed an exquisite work ; and in such an art of the treasure-hunter, in selection and comparison refined to that point, there was an element of creation, of personality. She had commended Fleda’s ftair, and Fleda now gave herself up to satiety. Preoccupations and scruples fell away from her ; she had never known a greater happiness than the week she passed in this initiation.

Wandering through clear chambers where the general effect made preferences almost as impossible as if they had been shocks, pausing at open doors where vistas were long and bland, she would, even if she had not already known, have discovered for herself that Poynton was the history of a devotion. The devotion had been jealous, but it had not been narrow ; there reigned a splendid rigor, but it rested on a deep curiosity. It was all France and Italy, with their ages composed to rest. For England you looked out of old windows, — it was England that was the wide embrace. While outside on the low terraces she contradicted gardeners and criticised colors, Mrs. Gereth left her visitor to finger fondly the brasses that Louis Quinze might have thumbed, to sit with Venetian velvets just held in a loving palm, to hang over cases of enamels and pass and repass before cabinets. There were not many pictures, — the panels and the stuffs were themselves the picture : and in all the great wainscoted house there was not an inch of pasted paper. What struck Fleda most in it was the high pride of her friend’s taste, a fine arrogance, a sense of style which, however amused and amusing, never compromised nor stooped. She felt, indeed, as this lady had intimated to her that she would, both a respect and a compassion that she had not known before ; the vision of the coming surrender filled her with an equal pain. To give it all up, to die to it, — that thought ached in her breast. She herself could imagine clinging there with a closeness separate from dignity. To have created such a place was to have had dignity enough ; when there was a question of defending it, the fiercest attitude was the right one. After so intense a taking of possession she too was to give it up ; for she reflected that if Mrs. Gereth’s remaining there would have offered her a sort of future (it stretched away in safe years on the other side of a gulf), the advent of the others could only be, by the same law, a great vague menace, the ruffling of a still water. Such were the emotions of a hungry girl whose sensibility was almost as great as her opportunities for comparison had been small. The museums had done something for her, but nature had done more.

If Owen had not come down with them nor joined them later, it was because he still found London jolly ; only the question remained of whether the jollity of London was not merely a diplomatic name for the jollity of Mona Brigstock. There was indeed in his conduct another ambiguity, — something that required explaining so long as his motive did n’t come to the surface. If he was in love, what was the matter ? And what was the matter still more if he was n’t ? The mystery was at last cleared up : this Fleda gathered from the tone in which, one morning at breakfast, a letter just opened made Mrs. Gereth cry out. Her dismay was almost a shriek : “ Why, he’s bringing her down, — he wants her to see the house ! ” They flew, the two ladies, into each other’s arms, and, with their heads together, soon made out that the reason, the baffling reason, why nothing had yet happened was that Mona did n’t know, or Owen did n’t, whether Poynton would really please her. She was coming down to judge ; and could anything in the world be more like poor Owen than the ponderous probity which had kept him from pressing her for a reply till she should have learned whether she liked what he had to offer her ? That was a scruple it had naturally been impossible to impute. If only they might fondly hope, Mrs. Gereth wailed, that the girl’s expectations would be dashed! There was a fine consistency, a sincerity quite affecting, in her arguing that the better the place should happen to look and to express the conceptions to which it owed its origin, the less it would speak to an intelligence so primitive. How could a Brigstock possibly understand what it was all about ? How, really, could a Brigstock logically do anything but hate it? Mrs. Gereth, even as she whisked away linen shrouds, persuaded herself of the possibility, on Mona’s part, of some bewildered blankness, some collapse of admiration that would prove disconcerting to her swain, — a hope of which Fleda, at least, could see the absurdity. and which gave the measure of the poor lady’s strange, almost maniacal disposition to thrust in everywhere the question of “things,” to read all behavior in the light of some fancied relation to them. “Things ” were of course the sum of the world ; only, for Mrs. Gereth, the sum of the world was rare French furniture and Oriental china. She could, at a stretch, imagine people’s not having, but she could n’t imagine their not wanting and not missing.

The young couple were to be accompanied by Mrs. Brigstock, and with a prevision of how fiercely they would be watched Fleda became conscious, before the party arrived, of an amused, diplomatic pity for them. Almost as much as Mrs. Gereth’s her taste was her life, but her life was somehow the larger for it. Besides, she had another care now : there was some one she would n’t have liked to see humiliated even in the form of a young lady who would contribute to his never suspecting such delicacy. When this young lady appeared, Fleda tried, so far as the wish to efface herself allowed, to be mainly the person to take her about, show her the house, and cover up her ignorance. Owen’s announcement had been that, as trains made it convenient, they would present themselves for luncheon, and depart before dinner ; but Mrs. Gereth, true to her system of glaring civility, proposed and obtained an extension, a dining and spending of the night. She made her young friend wonder against what rebellion of fact she was sacrificing in advance so profusely to form. Fleda was appalled, after the first hour, by the rash innocence with which Mona had accepted the responsibility of observation, and indeed by the large levity with which, sitting there like a bored tourist in fine scenery, she exercised it. She felt in her nerves the effect of such a manner on her companion’s, and it was this that made her want to entice the girl away, give her some merciful warning or some jocular cue. Mona met intense looks, however, with eyes that might have been blue beads, the only ones she had, — eyes into which Fleda thought it strange Owen Gereth should have to plunge for his fate, and his mother for a confession of whether Poynton was a success. She made no remark that helped to supply this light ; her impression, at any rate, had nothing in common with the feeling that, as the beauty of the place throbbed out like music, had caused Fleda Vetch to burst into tears. She was as content to say nothing as if, Mrs. Gereth afterwards exclaimed, she had been keeping her mouth shut in a railway tunnel. Mrs. Gereth contrived, at the end of an hour, to convey to Fleda that it was plain she was brutally ignorant; but Fleda more subtly discovered that her ignorance was obscurely active.

She was not so stupid as not to see that something, though she scarcely knew what, was expected of her that she could n ’t give ; and the only mode her intelligence suggested of meeting the expectation was to plant her big feet and pull another way. Mrs. Gereth wanted her to rise, somehow or somewhere, and was prepared to hate her if she did n’t: very well, she could n’t, she would n’t rise ; she already moved at the altitude that suited her. and was able to see that, since she was exposed to the hatred, she might at least enjoy the calm. The smallest trouble, for a girl with no nonsense about her, was to earn what she incurred ; so that, a dim instinct teaching her she would earn it best by not being effusive, and combining with the conviction that she now held Owen, and therefore the place, she had the pleasure of her honesty as well as of her security. Did n’t her very honesty lead her to be belligerently blank about Poynton, inasmuch as it was just Poynton that was forced upon her as a subject for effusiveness ? Such subjects, to Mona Brigstock, had an air almost of indecency, and the house became uncanny to her through such an appeal, — an appeal that, somewhere in the twilight of her being, as Fleda was sure, she thanked Heaven she was the girl stiffly to draw back from. She was a person whom pressure, at a given point, infallibly caused to expand in the wrong place, instead of, as it is usually administered in the hope of doing, the right one. Her mother, to make up for this, broke out universally, pronounced everything “most striking,”and was visibly happy that Owen’s captor should be so far on the way to strike ; but she jarred upon Mrs. Gereth by her formula of admiration, which was that anything she looked at was “ in the style ” of something else. This was to show how much she had seen, but it only showed she had seen nothing ; everything at Poynton was in the style of Poynton, and poor Mrs. Brigstock, who at least was determined to rise, and had brought with her a trophy of her journey, a “ lady’s magazine “ purchased at the station, a horrible thing with patterns for antimacassars, which, as it was quite new, the first number, and seemed so clever, she kindly offered to leave for the house, was in the style of a vulgar old woman who wore silver jewelry and tried to pass off a gross avidity as a sense of the beautiful.

By the day’s end it was clear to Fleda Vetch that, however Mona judged, the day had been determinant; whether or no she felt the charm, she felt the challenge ; at an early moment Owen Gereth would be able to tell his mother the worst. Nevertheless, when the elder lady, at bedtime, coming in a dressinggown and a high fever to the younger one’s room, cried out, “ She hates it; but what will she do ? “ Fleda pretended vagueness, played at obscurity, and assented disingenuously to the proposition that they at least had a respite. The future was dark to her, but there was a silken thread she could clutch in the gloom, — she would never give Owen away. He might give himself, — he even certainly would ; but that was his own affair, and his blunders, his innocence, only added to the appeal he made to her. She would cover him, she would protect him, and beyond thinking her a cheerful inmate he would never guess her intention, any more than, beyond thinking her clever enough for anything, his acute mother would discover it. From this hour, with Mrs. Gereth, there was a flaw in her frankness : her admirable friend continued to know everything she did ; what should remain unknown was the general motive.

From the window of her room, the next morning before breakfast, the girl saw Owen in the garden with Mona, who strolled beside him with a listening parasol, but without a visible look for the great florid picture that had been hung there by Mrs. Gereth’s hand. Mona kept dropping her eyes, as she walked, to catch the sheen of her patent-leather shoes, which she kicked forward a little — it gave her an odd movement — to help her to see what she thought of them. When Fleda came down, Mrs. Gereth was in the breakfast-room; and at that moment, Owen, through a long window, passed in, alone, from the terrace, and very endearingly kissed his mother. It immediately struck the girl that she was in their way, for had n’t he been borne on a wave of joy exactly to announce, before the Brigstocks departed, that Mona had at last faltered out the sweet word he had been waiting for ? He shook hands, with his friendly violence, but Fleda contrived not to look into his face : what she liked most to see in it was not the reflection of Mona’s boottoes. She could bear well enough that young lady herself, but she could n’t bear Owen’s opinion of her. She was on the point of slipping into the garden when the movement was checked by Mrs. Gereth’s suddenly drawing her close, as if for the morning embrace, and then, while she kept her there with the bravery of the night’s repose, breaking out, “ Well, my dear boy, what does your young friend there make of our odds and ends ? ”

“ Oh, she thinks they ’re all right!”

Fleda immediately guessed from his tone that he had not come in to say what she supposed ; there was even something in it to confirm Mrs. Gereth’s belief that their danger had dropped. She was sure, moreover, that his tribute to Mona’s taste was a repetition of the eloquent words in which the girl had herself recorded it; she could indeed hear, with all vividness, the pretty passage between the pair. "Don’t you think it’s rather nice, the old shop ? ” "Oh, it’s all right! ” Mona had graciously remarked ; and then they had probably, with a slap on a back, run another race up or down a bank. Fleda knew Mrs. Gereth had not yet uttered a word to her son that would have shown him how much she feared ; but it was impossible to feel her friend’s arm round her and not become aware that this friend was now throbbing with a strange intention. Owen’s reply had scarcely been of a nature to usher in a discussion of Mona’s sensibilities ; but Mrs. Gereth went on, in a moment, with an innocence of which Fleda could measure the cold hypocrisy : "Has she any sort of feeling for nice old things ?" The question was as fresh as the morning light.

“ oh, of course she likes everything that’s nice.” And Owen, who constitutionally disliked questions, — an answer was almost as hateful to him as a “trick ” to a big dog, —smiled kindly at Fleda, and conveyed that she would understand what he meant even if his mother did n’t. Fleda, however, mainly understood that Mrs. Gereth, with an odd, wild laugh, held her so hard that she hurt her.

“ I could give up everything without a pang. I think, to a person I could trust, I could respect.” The girl heard her voice tremble under the effort to show nothing but what she wanted to show, and felt the sincerity of her implication that the piety most real to her was to be on one’s knees before one’s high standard. “The best things here, as you know, are the things your father and I collected, things all that we worked for and waited for and suffered for. Yes.” cried Mrs. Gereth, with a fine freedom of emphasis, “ there are things in the house that we almost starved for ! They were our religion, they were our life, they were us! And now they’re only me, — except that they ’re also you, thank God, a little, you dear! ” she continued, suddenly inflicting on Fleda a kiss that was almost a fierce peck. “ There is n’t one of them I don’t know and love — well, as one remembers and cherishes the happiest moments of one’s life. Blindfold, in the dark, with the brush of a finger, I could tell one from another. They ’re living things to me; they know me, they return the touch of my hand. But I could let them all go, since I have to, so strangely, to another affection, another conscience. There’s a care they want, there’s a sympathy that draws out their beauty. Rather than make them over to a woman ignorant and vulgar, I think I ’d deface them with my own hands. Can’t you see me, Fleda, and would n’t you do it yourself ? ” she appealed to her companion, with glittering eyes. “ I could n’t bear the thought of such a woman here, —I could n’t. I don’t know what she ’d do ; she’d be sure to invent some deviltry, if it should be only to bring in her own little belongings and horrors. The world is full of cheap gimcracks, in this awful age, and they ’re thrust in at one at every turn. They ’d be thrust in here, on top of my treasures, my own. Who would save them for me, — I ask you who would ? ” and she turned again to Fleda with a dry, strained smile. Her handsome, high-nosed, excited face might have been that of Don Quixote tilting at a windmill. Drawn into the eddy of this outpouring, the girl, scared and embarrassed, laughed off her exposure; but only to feel herself more passionately caught up, and, as it seemed to her, thrust down the fine open mouth (it showed such perfect teeth) with which poor Owen’s slow cerebration gaped. “ You would, of course, — only you, in all the world, because you know, you feel, as I do myself, what’s good and true and pure.” No severity of the moral law could have taken a higher tone in this implication of the young lady who had not the only virtue Mrs. Gereth actively esteemed. “ You would replace me, you would watch over them, you would keep the place right,” she austerely pursued, “and with you here, —yes, with you, I believe I might rest, at last, in my grave ! ” She threw herself on Fleda’s neck, and before Fleda. horribly shamed, could shake her off, had burst into tears which could n’t have been explained, but which might perhaps have been understood.


A week later Owen Gereth came down to inform his mother that he had settled with Mona Brigstock ; but it was not at all a joy to Fleda (conscious how much to himself it would be a surprise) that he should find her still in the house. That dreadful scene before breakfast had made her position false and odious ; it had been followed, after they were left alone, by a scene of her own making with her fatal hostess. She notified Mrs. Gereth of her instant departure : she could n’t possibly remain after being offered to Owen, that way, before her very face, as his mother’s candidate for the honor of his hand. That was all he could have seen in such an outbreak, and in the indecency of her standing there to enjoy it. Fleda had, on the prior occasion, dashed out of the room by the shortest course, and, in her confusion, had fallen upon Mona in the garden. She had taken an aimless turn with her, and they had had some talk, rendered at first difficult and almost disagreeable by Mona’s apparent suspicion that she had been sent out to spy, as Mrs. Gereth had tried to spy, into her opinions. Fleda was diplomatic enough to treat these opinions as a mystery almost awful; which had an effect so much move than reassuring that at the end of five minutes the young lady from Waterbath suddenly and perversely said: “ Why has she never had a winter garden thrown out? If ever I have a place of my own, I mean to have one.” Fleda, dismayed, could see the thing, — something glazed and piped, on iron pillars, with untidy plants and cane sofas; a shiny excrescence on the noble face of Poynton. She remembered at Waterbath a conservatory where she had caught a bad cold in the company of a stuffed cockatoo fastened to a tropical bough, and a waterless fountain composed of shells stuck into some hardened paste. She asked Mona if her idea would be to make something like this conservatory ; to which Mona replied, “ Oh no, much finer ; we have n’t got a winter garden at Waterbath.” Fleda wondered if she meant to convey that it was the only grandeur they lacked, and in a moment Mona went on : “ But we have got a billiard-room, — that I will say for us ! ” There was no billiardroom at Poynton, but there would evidently be one, and it would have, hung on its walls, framed at the “ stores,” caricature portraits of celebrities, taken from a “ society paper.”

When the two girls had gone in to breakfast, it was for Fleda to see at a glance that there had been a further passage, of some high color, between Owen and his mother ; and she had turned pale in guessing to what extremity, at her expense, Mrs. Gereth had found occasion to proceed. Had n’t she, after her clumsy flight, been pressed upon Owen in still clearer terms ? Mrs. Gereth would practically have said to him: “ If you ’ll take her, I ’ll move away without a sound. But if you take any one else, any one I ’m not sure of, as I am of her, Heaven help me, I ’ll fight to the death! “ Breakfast, this morning, at Poynton, had been a singularly silent meal, in spite of the vague little cries with which Mrs. Brigstock turned up the under side of plates, and the knowing but alarming raps administered by her big knuckles to porcelain cups. Some one had to respond to her, and the duty assigned itself to Fleda, who, while pretending to meet her on the ground of explanation, wondered what Owen thought of a girl still indelicately anxious, after she had been grossly hurled at him, to prove by exhibitions of her fine taste that she was really what his mother pretended. This time, at any rate, their fate was sealed : Owen, as soon as he should get out of the house, would describe to Mona that lady’s extraordinary conduct, and if anything more had been wanted to “ fetch ” Mona, as he would call it, the deficiency was now made up. Mrs. Gereth in fact took care of that, — took care of it by the way, at the last, on the threshold, she said to the younger of her departing guests, with an irony of which the sting was wholly in the sense, not at all in the sound : “ We have n’t had the talk we might have had, have we? You ’ll feel that I’ve neglected you, and you ’ll treasure it up against me. Don’t, because really, you know, it has been quite an accident, and I’ve all sorts of information at your disposal. If you should come down again (only you won’t, ever, — I feel that!), I should give you plenty of time to worry it out of me. Indeed, there are some things I should quite insist on your learning; not permit you at all, in any settled way, not to learn. Yes, indeed, you d put me through, and I should put you, my dear ! We should have each other to reckon with, and you would see me as I really am. I’m not a bit the vague, mooning, easy creature I dare say you think. However, if you won’t come, you won’t, n’en parlons plus. It is stupid here, after what you ’re accustomed to. We can only, all round, do what we can, eh ? For Heaven’s sake, don’t let your mother forget her precious publication, the female magazine, with the what-do-you-call-’em ? — the greasecatchers. There ! ”

Mrs. Gereth, delivering herself from the doorstep, had tossed the periodical higher in air than was absolutely needful, — tossed it toward the carriage the retreating party was about to enter. Mona, from the force of habit, the reflex action of the custom of sport, had popped out, with a little spring, a long arm, and intercepted the missile as easily as she would have caused a tennis-ball to rebound from a racket. “ Good catch ! ” Owen had cried, so genuinely pleased that practically no notice was taken of his mother’s impressive remarks. It was to the accompaniment of romping laughter, as Mrs. Gereth afterwards said, that the carriage had rolled away; but it was while that laughter was still in the air that Fleda Vetch, white and terrible, had turned upon her hostess with her scorching “ How could you ? Great God, how could you ? ” This lady’s perfect blankness was, from the first, a sign of her serene conscience, and the fact that, till indoctrinated, she did n’t even know what Fleda meant by resenting her late offense to every susceptibility gave our young woman a sore, scared perception that her own value in the house was just the value, as one might say, of a good agent. Mrs. Gereth was generously sorry, but she was still more surprised, — surprised at Fleda’s not having liked to be shown off to Owen as the right sort of wife for him. Why not, in Heaven’s name, if she absolutely was the right sort? She had admitted, on explanation, that she could see what her young friend meant by having been laid, as Fleda called it, at his feet; but it struck the girl that the admission was only made to please her, and that Mrs. Gereth was secretly surprised at her not being as happy to lie sacrificed to the supremacy of a high standard as she was happy to sacrifice her. She had taken a tremendous fancy to her, but that was on account of the fancy — to Poynton. of course — Fleda herself had taken. Was n’t this latter fancy then so great, after all ? Fleda felt that she could declare it to be great indeed when really, for the sake of it, she could forgive what she had suffered, and, after reproaches and tears, asseverations and kisses, after learning that she was cared for only as a priestess of the altar and a view of her bruised dignity which left no alternative to flight, could accept the shame with the balm, consent not to depart, take refuge in the thin comfort of at least knowing the truth. The truth was simply that all Mrs. Gereth’s scruples were on one side, and that her ruling passion had in a manner despoiled her of her humanity. On the second day, after the tide of emotion had somewhat ebbed, she said soothingly to her companion : “ But you would, after all, marry him, you know, darling, would n’t you, if that girl were not there? I mean, of course, if he were to ask you,” Mrs. Gereth had thoughtfully added.

“ Marry him if he were to ask me ? Most distinctly not ! ”

The question had not come up with this definiteness before, and Mrs. Gereth, clearly, was more surprised than ever. She marveled a moment. “ Not even to have Poynton ? ”

“Not even to have Poynton.”

“ But why on earth ?" Mrs. Gereth ’s sad eyes were fixed on her.

Fleda colored ; she hesitated. “ Because he’s too stupid ! ” Save on one other occasion, at which we shall arrive, little as the reader may believe it, she never came nearer to betraying to Mrs. Gereth that she was in love with Owen. She found a dim amusement in reflecting that if Mona had not been there, and he had not been too stupid, and he verily had asked her, she might, should she have wished to keep her secret, have found it possible to pass off the motive of her action as a mere passion for Poynton.

Mrs. Gereth evidently thought of little but marriage in these days, for she broke out with sudden rapture, in the middle of the week: “ I know what they ’ll do : they will marry, but they ’ll go and live at Waterbath! ” There was positive joy in that form of the idea, which she embroidered and developed : it seemed so much the safest thing that could happen. “ Yes, I ’ll have you, but I won’t go there ! ” Mona would have said, with a vicious nod at the southern horizon : “ we "ll leave your horrid mother alone there for life.” It would be an ideal solution, this ingress the lively pair, with their spiritual need of a warmer medium, would playfully punch in the ribs of her ancestral home; for it would not only prevent recurring panic at Poynton ; it would offer them, as in one of their gimcrack baskets or other vessels of ugliness, a definite daily felicity that Poynton could never give. Owen might manage his estate, just as he managed it now, and Mrs. Gereth would manage everything else. When, in the hall, on the unforgettable day of his return. she had heard his voice ring out like a call to a terrier, she had still, as Fleda afterwards learned, clutched frantically at the conceit that he had come, at the worst, to announce some compromise ; to tell her she would have to put up with the girl, yes, but that some way would be arrived at of leaving her in possession. Fleda Vetch, whom from the first hour no illusion had brushed with its wing, now held her breath, went on tiptoe, wandered in outlying parts of the house and through delicate, muffled rooms, while the mother and son faced each other below. From time to time she stopped to listen ; but all was so quiet she was almost frightened : she had vaguely expected a sound of contention. It lasted longer than she would have supposed, whatever it was they were doing ; and when finally, from a window, she saw Owen stroll out of the house, stop and light a cigarette, and then pensively lose himself in the plantations, she found other matter for trepidation in the fact that Mrs. Gereth did n’t immediately come rushing up into her arms. She wondered whether she ought n’t to go down to her, and measured the gravity of what had occurred by the circumstance, which she presently ascertained, that the poor lady had retired to her room and wished not to be disturbed. This admonition had been for her maid, with whom Fleda conferred in lowered tones; but the girl, without either fatuity or resentment, judged that, since it could render Mrs. Gereth indifferent even to the ministrations of disinterested attachment, the scene had been tremendous.

She was absent from luncheon, where indeed Fleda had enough to do to look Owen in the face ; there would be so much to make that hateful in their common memory of the passage in which his last visit had terminated. This had been her apprehension, at least; but as soon as he stood there she was constrained to wonder at the practical simplicity of the ordeal, — a simplicity which was really just his own simplicity, the particular thing that, for Fleda Vetch, some other things of course aiding, made almost any direct relation with him pleasant. He had neither wit, nor tact, nor inspiration : all she could say was that when they were together the alienation these charms were usually depended on to allay did n’t occur. On this occasion, for instance, he did so much better than “ carry off ” an awkward remembrance : he simply did n’t have it. He had clean forgotten that she was the girl his mother would have settled upon him ; he was conscious only that she was there in a manner for service. — conscious of the dumb instinct that, from the first. had made him regard her not as complicating his intercourse with that personage, but as simplifying it. Fleda found it beautiful that this theory should have survived the incident of the other day ; found it exquisite that whereas she was conscious, through faint reverberations, that for her kind little circle at large, whom it did n’t. concern, her tendency had begun to define itself as parasitical, this strong young man, who had a right to judge her and even a reason to loathe her, did n’t judge and did n’t loathe, let her down gently, treated her as if she pleased him, and in fact evidently liked her to be just where she was. She asked herself what he did when Mona denounced her, and the only answer to the question was that perhaps Mona did n’t denounce her. If Mona was inarticulate, he was n’t such a fool, then, to marry her. That he was glad Fleda was there was at any rate sufficiently shown by the domestic familiarity with which he said to her, “ I must tell you I ’ve been having an awful row with my mother. I ’m engaged to be married to Miss Brigstock.”

“ Ah, really ? ” cried Fleda, achieving a radiance of which she was secretly proud. “ How very exciting ! ”

“ Too exciting for poor Mummy. She won’t hear of it. She has been slating her fearfully. She says she’s a ‘ barbarian.’ ”

“ Why, she ’s lovely ! ” Fleda exclaimed.

“ Oh, she ’s all right. Mother must come round.”

Only give her time,” said Fleda. She had advanced to the threshold of the door thus thrown open to her, and, without exactly crossing it, threw in an appreciative glance. She asked Owen when his marriage would take place, and in the light of his reply read that Mrs. Gereth’s wretched attitude would have no influence at all on the event, absolutely fixed when he came down, and distant by only three months. He liked Fleda seeming to be on his side, though that was a secondary matter, for what really most concerned him now was the line his mother took about the house, her declared unwillingness to give it up.

“ Naturally I want my house, you know,” he said, “ and my father made every arrangement for me to have it. But she may make it devilish awkward. What in the world’s a fellow to do ? ” This it was that Owen wanted to know, and there could be no better proof of his friendliness than his air of depending on Fleda Vetch to tell him. She questioned him, they spent an hour together, and, as he freely reproduced his row, she found herself saddened and frightened by the material he seemed to offer her to deal with. It Was devilish awkward, and it was so in part because Owen had no imagination. It had lodged itself in that empty chamber that his mother hated the surrender because she hated Mona. He did n’t of course understand why she hated Mona, but this belonged to an order of mysteries that never troubled him : there were lots of things, especially in people’s minds, that a fellow did n’t understand. Poor Owen went through life with a frank dread of people’s minds: there were explanations he would have been almost as shy of receiving as of giving. There was, therefore, nothing that accounted for anything, though in its way it was vivid enough, in his picture to Fleda of his mother’s virtual refusal to move. That was simply what it was ; for did n’t she refuse to move when she as good as declared that she would move only with the furniture ? It was the furniture she would n’t give up; and what was the good of Poynton without the furniture ? Besides, the furniture happened to be his, just as everything else happened to be. The furniture,— the word, on his lips, had somehow, for Fleda, the sound of washing-stands and copious bedding, and she could well imagine the note it might have struck for Mrs. Gereth. The girl, in this interview with him, spoke of the contents of the house only as “ the works of art.” It did n’t, however, in the least matter to Owen what they were called ; what did matter, she easily guessed, was that it had been laid upon him by Mona, been made in effect a condition of her consent, that he should hold his mother to the strictest responsibility for them. Mona had already entered upon the enjoyment of her rights. She had made him feel that Mrs. Gereth had been liberally provided for, and had asked him cogently what room there would be at Ricks for the innumerable treasures of the big house. Ricks, the sweet little place offered to the mistress of Poynton as the refuge of her declining years, had been left to the late Mr. Gereth, a considerable time before his death, by an old maternal aunt, a good lady who had spent most of her life there. The house had in recent times been let, but it was amply furnished, it contained all the defunct aunt’s possessions. Owen had lately inspected it, and he communicated to Fleda that he had quietly taken Mona to see it. It was n’t a place like Poynton, — what dower-house ever was ?—but it was an awfully jolly little place, and Mona had taken a tremendous fancy to it. If there were a few things at Poynton that were Mrs. Gereth’s peculiar property, of course she must take them away with her; but one of the matters that became clear to Fleda was that this transfer would be immediately subject to Miss Brigstock’s approval. The special business that she herself now became aware of being charged with was that of seeing Mrs. Geretli safely and singly off the premises.

Her heart failed her, after Owen had returned to London, with the ugliness of this duty, — with the ugliness, indeed, of the whole horrid conflict. She saw nothing of Mrs. Gereth that day ; she spent it in roaming, with sick sighs, and feeling, as she passed from room to room, that what was expected of her companion was really dreadful. It would have been better never to have had such a place than to have had it and lose it. It was odious to her to have to look for solutions : what a strange relation between mother and son when there was no fundamental tenderness out of which a solution would irrepressibly spring ! Was it Owen who was mainly responsible for that poverty ? Fleda could n’t think so when she remembered that, so far as he was concerned, Mrs. Gereth would still have been welcome to have her seat by the Poynton fire. The fact that from the moment one admitted his marriage one saw no very different course for Owen to take made her all the rest of that aching day find her best relief in the mercy of not having yet to face her hostess. She dodged and dreamed and romanced away the time ; instead of inventing a remedy or a compromise, instead of preparing a plan by which a scandal might be averted, she gave herself, in her sentient solitude, up to a mere fairy tale, up to the very taste of the beautiful peace with which she would have filled the air, if only something might have been that could never have been.

Henry James.