Murder by Reflection by H. F. Heard Page A

for all he wished, like a devoted mother. She never gave him a lump sum, but took a vivid interest in everything he wanted and often went with him to see him buy it and to advise him about it. Still less did she ever suggest settling any money on him and, from the mixed motives of the childish wish to be dependent and not to be bothered with money and the fear that if he did ask she would refuse, he never brought up the question. His letting her even see about his clothes and come to the tailor with him, pick the cloth and discuss the cut, had indeed led largely to their present silly but sharp little difficulty. It was the occasion, if not the cause, of their growing tension.
    Meanwhile he still liked drifting, enjoyed the sense of filial dependence, and the fact that he was a kind of perpetual guest in her house. So he disliked very strongly the thought, about which he had no doubt, that she would say “No” to any attempt he might make to have a life which she did not control. Marriage must mean that, and therefore it was out of the question. But he did not see why it should come into the question. He could continue to see both women and, if possible, see whether they could get to like each other, and then see, further, what might come of that. So he rationalized his drifting. Drifting, however, is one of the surest ways of doing what is not intended—in Arnoldo’s case, of falling into deep love.
    Miss Gayton was intelligent, sensitive, sympathetic. She listened while he talked, and her answers and questions were really contributive. They stimulated his mind. He was ready to face the fact that he had found a charming companion and someone he could enjoy all by himself, for she seemed quite unable to make friends in Aumic itself.
    â€œPerhaps it’s knowing most of the people as parents,” she explained, when she came to tea and she and Mrs. Heron had made a fair Opening by sharing their joint inability to make themselves part of the town life.
    The elder woman was soothed by the younger’s quiet deference. On entering she had come over to where the lady of the house sat, making it quite clear that she did not expect the chatelaine to rise to greet her. But this remark was not happy and the sky of converse became overcast.
    â€œHow do you mean?” the putative mother inquired.
    â€œWell …” She was just going to say, “you see so much of the parents reflected in the children,” when she saw that this would be taken ill here. She hesitated, and her hostess read the silence almost as though she had spoken the repressed words.
    She turned the subject and spoke of how she had disliked the place when she first came—these hard azures and dense yellows, so different from the soft greens and grays of the North; and then the monotonous lack of seasons. Mrs. Heron agreed. But to the further attempt to show how this more highly pitched beauty might become likable, there was no response.
    Arnoldo sat uneasily at hand. He feared that Miss Gayton might say that he had made her see this unfamiliar loveliness. She was, however, too intelligent, and, after a few more cautious exchanges, the women parted without the elder’s even making a general proposal that they might meet again. He felt his heart harden against his mother when, as soon as he returned, she remarked, “I don’t think that girl showed much sense in choosing teaching as her profession. She hasn’t a taste for it.” He felt that the remark was meant to draw him, so he kept silence; but it was the unfriendly silence of declined battle.
    And when he next met Miss Gayton (after the call they had parted in silence, both sensing that to be heard talking in the hall would be undesirable), she was as helpful as Irene Ibis (as he found himself thinking of her) was unfriendly.
    â€œYour mother quite naturally didn’t feel very much at home with me. I’m thoroughly a New Englander and realize her