Chapter 9

“A woman naturally born to fears.”—King John.
“Methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb,
Is coming toward me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles.”—King Richard II.

Matthew Jermyn approached Mrs. Transome taking off his hat and smiling. She did not smile, but said—

“You knew Harold was not at home?”

“Yes; I came to see you, to know if you had any wishes that I could further, since I have not had an opportunity of consulting you since he came home.”

“Let us walk toward the Rookery, then.”

They turned together, Mr. Jermyn still keeping his hat off and holding it behind him; the air was so soft and agreeable that Mrs. Transome had nothing but a large veil over her head.

They walked for a little while in silence till they were out of sight, under tall trees, and treading noiselessly on falling leaves. What Jermyn was really most anxious about, was to learn from Mrs. Transome whether anything had transpired that was significant of Harold’s disposition toward him, which he suspected to be very far from friendly. Jermyn was not naturally flinty-hearted: at five-and-twenty he had written verses, and had got himself wet through in order not to disappoint a dark-eyed woman whom he was proud to believe in love with him; but a family man with grown up sons and daughters, a man with a professional position and complicated affairs that make it hard to ascertain the exact relation between property and liabilities, necessarily thinks of himself and what may be impending.

“Harold is remarkably acute and clever,” he began at last, since Mrs. Transome did not speak. “If he gets into Parliament, I have no doubt he will distinguish himself. He has a quick eye for business of all kinds.”

“That is no comfort to me,” said Mrs. Transome. To-day she was more conscious than usual of that bitterness which was always in her mind in Jermyn’s presence, but which was carefully suppressed:—suppressed because she could not endure that the degradation she inwardly felt should ever become visible or audible in acts or words of her own—should ever be reflected in any word or look of his. For years there had been a deep silence about the past between them; on her side because she remembered; on his, because he more and more forgot.

“I trust he is not unkind to you in any way. I know his opinions pain you; but I trust you find him in everything else disposed to be a good son.”

“Oh, to be sure—good as men are disposed to be to women, giving them cushions and carriages, and recommending them to enjoy themselves, and then expecting them to be contented under contempt and neglect. I have no power over him—remember that—none.”

Jermyn turned to look in Mrs. Transome’s face: it was long since he had heard her speak to him as if she were losing her self-command.

“Has he shown any unpleasant feeling about your management of affairs?”

“My management!” Mrs. Transome said, with concentrated rage, flashing a fierce look at Jermyn. She checked herself: she felt as if she were lighting a torch to flare on her own past folly and misery. It was a resolve which had become a habit, that she would never quarrel with this man—never tell him what she saw him to be. She had kept her woman’s pride and sensibility intact: through all her life there had vibrated the maiden need to have her hand kissed and be the object of chivalry. And so she sank into silence again, trembling.