archaeology, study languages, travel. A woman cannot travel alone, but two women may travel together; and Sophia for a moment beheld herself standing upon a bridge, a blue river beneath her, a romantic gabled golden town and purple mountains behind, and at her side, large-eyed and delighted and clutching a box of watercolour paints, Mrs. Hervey.
O foolish vision! Even were not Mrs. Hervey stoutly wedded to her apothecary, how could one long endure such a wavering mixture of impulse and impertinence, sensibility and false refinement?
It is because she was kind to me, she thought, that my mind turns to her. She is young, silly, and can do nothing, yet she came to me in kindness, offering to my aridity a refreshment not germane at all to what she really is, but a dew of being young and impulsive. Caspar is such another, if he were here I should cling to him, listen to his music, solace myself with his unconscious grace of being young, and malleable, and alive. Should I adopt him, bring him here in the stead of my children? A black heir to Blandamer? Impossible! Though I have will enough to enforce it, the resentment of those I force would hound him out, all but his actual black body. And indeed, could I long endure to have this pretty soft wagging black spaniel in the place of my children?
Most of the time it seemed to her inevitable that both children should die. Then, more irrational than the conviction of their doom, would come a conviction of their recovery. Hope would twitch her to her feet, set her running towards the night nursery where she should hear from Mrs. Kerridge indubitable symptoms of a turn for the better. And halfway there fear would stay her, bidding her sit down again, continue what occupation she had, taste, as long as it might linger, the hope so exactly fellowed to the previous hopes which enquiry had demolished.
Damian, Mrs. Kerridge and the doctor said, was making the better fight. Yet it was Damian who died first, collapsing suddenly, and dying with a little gasp like a breaking bubble. Two hours later Frederick entered the house. Sophia expected him, yet when the carriage came to the door she ran out by the long window, spying from behind a tree at the intruder, come so inopportunely upon her misery. Whoever it is, she thought, not recognising her own horses, I will not see him. I will hide.
A foreigner, her mind said, in the instant before recognition. He ran up the steps and stood talking to Johnson, who had opened the door. She advanced, slowly mounting the steps behind him, knowing herself unseen by him. She seemed to be stalking a prey, and on Johnson’s countenance she read with how much surmise and excitement her household awaited this meeting.
Why doesn’t he turn round, she thought. I cannot touch him, and I don’t want to speak, lest my voice should break, and deliver me over to him.
“Here is Mrs. Willoughby, sir.”
As though I were the coffee, she thought; and her lips were moving into a smile when he turned to her.
“Sophia!”
His voice had altered. There was a new note in it, he had lost his drawl. She said,
“Damian is dead. Do you know? I can’t remember if he died before the carriage started for you.”
He bowed his head.
“Johnson has told me.”
She saw that the horses were sweating. They must go to the stables, life must continue.
“You will be tired with your journey. Come in.”
Now which chair will you take, she thought — your old one?
But he remained on his feet, walking up and down the room, as though, again under that roof, the habit of his former listless pacing piped its old tune to him. To the window, and turning, to portrait of Grandpapa Aspen, and back to the window again, his advance and retreat surveyed by that quiet old gentleman, who, as Gainsborough had painted him, seemed with his gun and supple wet-nosed retriever to be watching through the endless bronze dusk of an autumnal evening, paused on the brink of his spinney and listening
O foolish vision! Even were not Mrs. Hervey stoutly wedded to her apothecary, how could one long endure such a wavering mixture of impulse and impertinence, sensibility and false refinement?
It is because she was kind to me, she thought, that my mind turns to her. She is young, silly, and can do nothing, yet she came to me in kindness, offering to my aridity a refreshment not germane at all to what she really is, but a dew of being young and impulsive. Caspar is such another, if he were here I should cling to him, listen to his music, solace myself with his unconscious grace of being young, and malleable, and alive. Should I adopt him, bring him here in the stead of my children? A black heir to Blandamer? Impossible! Though I have will enough to enforce it, the resentment of those I force would hound him out, all but his actual black body. And indeed, could I long endure to have this pretty soft wagging black spaniel in the place of my children?
Most of the time it seemed to her inevitable that both children should die. Then, more irrational than the conviction of their doom, would come a conviction of their recovery. Hope would twitch her to her feet, set her running towards the night nursery where she should hear from Mrs. Kerridge indubitable symptoms of a turn for the better. And halfway there fear would stay her, bidding her sit down again, continue what occupation she had, taste, as long as it might linger, the hope so exactly fellowed to the previous hopes which enquiry had demolished.
Damian, Mrs. Kerridge and the doctor said, was making the better fight. Yet it was Damian who died first, collapsing suddenly, and dying with a little gasp like a breaking bubble. Two hours later Frederick entered the house. Sophia expected him, yet when the carriage came to the door she ran out by the long window, spying from behind a tree at the intruder, come so inopportunely upon her misery. Whoever it is, she thought, not recognising her own horses, I will not see him. I will hide.
A foreigner, her mind said, in the instant before recognition. He ran up the steps and stood talking to Johnson, who had opened the door. She advanced, slowly mounting the steps behind him, knowing herself unseen by him. She seemed to be stalking a prey, and on Johnson’s countenance she read with how much surmise and excitement her household awaited this meeting.
Why doesn’t he turn round, she thought. I cannot touch him, and I don’t want to speak, lest my voice should break, and deliver me over to him.
“Here is Mrs. Willoughby, sir.”
As though I were the coffee, she thought; and her lips were moving into a smile when he turned to her.
“Sophia!”
His voice had altered. There was a new note in it, he had lost his drawl. She said,
“Damian is dead. Do you know? I can’t remember if he died before the carriage started for you.”
He bowed his head.
“Johnson has told me.”
She saw that the horses were sweating. They must go to the stables, life must continue.
“You will be tired with your journey. Come in.”
Now which chair will you take, she thought — your old one?
But he remained on his feet, walking up and down the room, as though, again under that roof, the habit of his former listless pacing piped its old tune to him. To the window, and turning, to portrait of Grandpapa Aspen, and back to the window again, his advance and retreat surveyed by that quiet old gentleman, who, as Gainsborough had painted him, seemed with his gun and supple wet-nosed retriever to be watching through the endless bronze dusk of an autumnal evening, paused on the brink of his spinney and listening
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