The Chaperon | Page 4

holding out, the tension,
though it was already late in the evening, might have lasted long. But
the old lady after a little appeared to recognise, a trifle ungraciously,
the girl's superior resources.
"Have you written to your mother?"
"Yes, but only a few lines, to tell her I shall come and see her in the
morning."
"Is that all you've got to say?" asked the grandmother.
"I don't quite know what you want me to say."
"I want you to say that you've made up your mind."
"Yes, I've done that, granny."
"You intend to respect your father's wishes?"
"It depends upon what you mean by respecting them. I do justice to the
feelings by which they were dictated."
"What do you mean by justice?" the old lady retorted.
The girl was silent a moment; then she said: "You'll see my idea of it."
"I see it already! You'll go and live with her."
"I shall talk the situation over with her to-morrow and tell her that I
think that will be best."
"Best for her, no doubt!"
"What's best for her is best for me."
"And for your brother and sister?" As the girl made no reply to this her
grandmother went on: "What's best for them is that you should
acknowledge some responsibility in regard to them and, considering
how young they are, try and do something for them."

"They must do as I've done--they must act for themselves. They have
their means now, and they're free."
"Free? They're mere children."
"Let me remind you that Eric is older than I."
"He doesn't like his mother," said the old lady, as if that were an
answer.
"I never said he did. And she adores him."
"Oh, your mother's adorations!"
"Don't abuse her now," the girl rejoined, after a pause.
The old lady forbore to abuse her, but she made up for it the next
moment by saying: "It will be dreadful for Edith."
"What will be dreadful?"
"Your desertion of her."
"The desertion's on her side."
"Her consideration for her father does her honour."
"Of course I'm a brute, n'en parlons plus," said the girl. "We must go
our respective ways," she added, in a tone of extreme wisdom and
philosophy.
Her grandmother straightened out her knitting and began to roll it up.
"Be so good as to ring for my maid," she said, after a minute. The
young lady rang, and there was another wait and another conscious
hush. Before the maid came her mistress remarked: "Of course then
you'll not come to ME, you know."
"What do you mean by 'coming' to you?"
"I can't receive you on that footing."
"She'll not come WITH me, if you mean that."
"I don't mean that," said the old lady, getting up as her maid came in.
This attendant took her work from her, gave her an arm and helped her
out of the room, while Rose Tramore, standing before the fire and
looking into it, faced the idea that her grandmother's door would now
under all circumstances be closed to her. She lost no time however in
brooding over this anomaly: it only added energy to her determination
to act. All she could do to-night was to go to bed, for she felt utterly
weary. She had been living, in imagination, in a prospective struggle,
and it had left her as exhausted as a real fight. Moreover this was the
culmination of a crisis, of weeks of suspense, of a long, hard strain. Her
father had been laid in his grave five days before, and that morning his

will had been read. In the afternoon she had got Edith off to St.
Leonard's with their aunt Julia, and then she had had a wretched talk
with Eric. Lastly, she had made up her mind to act in opposition to the
formidable will, to a clause which embodied if not exactly a provision,
a recommendation singularly emphatic. She went to bed and slept the
sleep of the just.
"Oh, my dear, how charming! I must take another house!" It was in
these words that her mother responded to the announcement Rose had
just formally made and with which she had vaguely expected to
produce a certain dignity of effect. In the way of emotion there was
apparently no effect at all, and the girl was wise enough to know that
this was not simply on account of the general line of non- allusion
taken by the extremely pretty woman before her, who looked like her
elder sister. Mrs. Tramore had never manifested, to her daughter, the
slightest consciousness that her position was peculiar; but the
recollection of something more than that fine policy was required to
explain such a failure, to appreciate Rose's sacrifice. It was simply a
fresh reminder