Chapter 87
They talked--about the Vicar, about Alice, about Rowcliffe's children, about the changes in the Dale, the coming of the Maceys and the going of young Grierson.
"He wasn't a bad chap, Grierson."
He softened, remembering Grierson.
"I can't think why you didn't care about him."
And at the thought of how Gwenda might have cared for Grierson and hadn't cared his youth revived; it came back into his eyes and lit them; it pa.s.sed into his scowling face and caressed and smoothed it to the perfect look of reminiscent satisfaction. Rowcliffe did not know, neither did she, how his egoism hung upon her pa.s.sion, how it drew from it food and fire.
He raised his head and squared his shoulders with the unconscious gesture of his male pride.
It was then that she saw for the first time that he wore the black tie and had the black band of mourning on his sleeve.
"Oh Steven--what do you wear that for?"
"This? My poor old uncle died last week."
"Not the one I saw?"
"When?"
"At Mary's wedding."
"No. Another one. My father's brother."
He paused.
"It's made a great difference to me and Mary."
He said it gravely, mournfully almost. She looked at him with tender eyes.
"I'm sorry, Steven."
He smiled faintly.
"Sorry, are you?"
"Yes. If you cared for him."
"I'm afraid I didn't very much. It's not as if I'd seen a lot of him."
"You said it's made a difference."
"So it has. He's left me a good
"Oh--_that_ sort of difference."
"My dear girl, four hundred a year makes all the difference; it's no use pretending that it doesn't."
"I'm not pretending. You sounded sorry and I was sorry for you. That was all."
At that his egoism winced. It was as if she had accused him of pretending to be sorry.
He looked at her sharply. His romantic youth died in that look.
Silence fell between them. But she was used to that. She even welcomed it. Steven's silences brought him nearer to her than his speech.
Essy came in with the tea-tray.
He lingered uneasily after the meal, glancing now and then at the clock. She was used to that, too. She also had her eyes on the clock, measuring the priceless moments.
"Is anything worrying you, Steven?" she said presently.
"Why? Do I look worried?"
"Not exactly, but you don't look well."
"I'm getting a bit rusty. That's what's the matter with me. I want some hard work to rub me up and put a polish on me and I can't get it here. I've never had enough to do since I left Leeds. Harker was a wise chap to stick to it. It would do me all the good in the world if I went back."
"Then," she said, "you'll _have_ to go, Steven."
She did not know, in her isolation, that Rowcliffe had been going about saying that sort of thing for the last seven years. She thought it was the formidable discovery of time.
"You ought to go if you feel like that about it. Why don't you?"
"I don't know."
"You _do_ know."
She did not look at him as she spoke, so she missed his bewilderment.
"You know why you stayed, Steven."
He understood. He remembered. The dull red of his face flushed with the shock of the memory.
"Do I?" he said.
"I made you."
His flush darkened. But he gave no other sign of having heard her.
"I don't know why I'm staying now."