And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.
—Hardy, “During Wind and Rain”
“You have been walking.”
His second change of clothes was thus proved a vain pretense.
“I needed to clear my mind. I slept badly.”
“So did I.” She added, “You said you were fatigued be-yond belief.”
“I was.”
“But you stayed up until after one o’clock.”
Charles turned somewhat abruptly to the window. “I had many things to consider.”
Ernestina’s part in this stiff exchange indicates a certain failure to maintain in daylight the tone of her nocturnal self-adjurations. But besides the walking she also knew, via Sam, Mary and a bewildered Aunt Tranter, that Charles planned to leave Lyme that day. She had determined not to demand an explanation of this sudden change of intention; let his lordship give it in his own good time.
And then, when he had finally come, just before eleven, and while she sat primly waiting in the back parlor, he had had the unkindness to speak at length in the hall to Aunt Tranter, and inaudibly, which was the worst of all. Thus she inwardly seethed.
Perhaps not the least of her resentments was that she had taken especial pains with her toilet that morning, and he had not paid her any compliment on it. She wore a rosepink “breakfast” dress with bishop sleeves—tight at the delicate armpit, then pleating voluminously in a froth of gauze to the constricted wrist. It set off her fragility very prettily; and the white ribbons in her smooth hair and a delicately pervasive fragrance of lavender water played their part. She was a sugar Aphrodite, though with faintly bruised eyes, risen from a bed of white linen. Charles might have found it rather easy to be cruel. But he managed a smile and sitting beside her, took one of her hands, and patted it.
“My dearest, I must ask forgiveness. I am not myself. And I fear I’ve decided I must go to London.”
“Oh Charles!”
“I wish it weren’t so. But this new turn of events makes it imperative I see Montague at once.” Montague was the solicitor, in those days before accountants, who looked after Charles’s affairs.
“Can you not wait till I return? It is only ten more days.”
“I shall return to bring you back.”
“But cannot Mr. Montague come here?”
“Alas no, there are so many papers. Besides, that is not my only purpose. I must inform your father of what has hap-pened.”
She removed her hand from his arm.
“But what is it to do with him?”
“My dear child, it has everything to do with him. He has entrusted you to my care. Such a grave alteration in my prospects—“
“But you have still your own income!”
“Well ... of course, yes, I shall always be comfortably off. But there are other things. The title ...”
“I had forgotten that. Of course. It’s quite impossible that I should marry a mere commoner.” She glanced back at him with an appropriately sarcastic firmness.
“My sweet, be patient. These things have to be said—you bring a great sum of money with you. Of course our private affections are the paramount consideration. However, there is a ... well, a legal and contractual side to matrimony which—“
“Fiddlesticks!”
“My dearest Tina ...”
“You know perfectly well they would allow me to marry a Hottentot if I wanted.”
“That may be so. But even the most doting parents prefer to be informed—“
“How many rooms has the Belgravia house?” “I have no idea.” He hesitated, then added, “Twenty, I daresay.”
“And you mentioned one day that you had two and a half thousand a year. To which my dowry will bring—“
“Whether our changed circumstances are still sufficient for comfort is not at issue.”
“Very well. Suppose Papa tells you you cannot have my hand. What then?”
“You choose to misunderstand. I know my duty. One cannot be too scrupulous at such a juncture.”
This exchange has taken place without their daring to look at each other’s faces. She dropped her head, in a very plain and mutinous disagreement. He rose and stood behind her.
“It is no more than a formality. But such formalities matter.”
She stared obstinately down.
“I am weary of Lyme. I see you less here than in town.”
He............