the coast was clear. She particularly wanted to get Rosaleen alone, without David, rightly judging that Rosaleen alone would be a far easier proposition.
Nevertheless she felt dreadfully nervous as she waited in the sunny drawing-room, though she felt slightly better when Rosaleen came in with what Mrs Marchmont always thought of as her “half-witted look” more than usually marked.
“I wonder,” thought Adela to herself, “if the blast did it or if she was always like that?”
Rosaleen stammered.
“Oh, g-g-ood morning. Is there anything? Do sit down.”
“Such a lovely morning,” said Mrs Marchmont brightly. “All my early tulips are out. Are yours?”
The girl stared at her vacantly.
“I don't know.”
What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didn't talk gardening or dogs - those standbyes of rural conversation.
Aloud she said, unable to help the tinge of acidity that crept into her tone:
“Of course you have so many gardeners - they attend to all that.”
“I believe we're shorthanded. Old Mullard wants two more men, he says. But there seems a terrible shortage still of labour.”
The words came out with a kind of glib parrot-like delivery - rather like a child who repeats what it has heard a grownup person say.
Yes, she was like a child. Was that, Adela wondered, her charm? Was that what had attracted that hard-headed shrewd business man, Gordon Cloade, and blinded him to her stupidity and her lack of breeding? After all, it couldn't only be looks. Plenty of good-looking women had angled unsuccessfully to attract him.
But childishness, to a man of sixty-two, might be an attraction. Was it, could it be, real - or was it a pose - a pose that had paid and so had become second nature?
Rosaleen was saying, “David's out, I'm afraid...” and the words recalled Mrs Marchmont to herself. David might return. Now was her chance and she must not neglect it. The words stuck in her throat but she got them out.
“I wonder - if you would help me?”
“Help you?”
Rosaleen looked surprised, uncomprehending.
“I - things are very difficult - you see, Gordon's death has made a great difference to us all.”
“You silly idiot,” she thought. “Must you go on gaping at me like that? You know what I mean! You must know what I mean. After all, you've been poor yourself...”
She hated Rosaleen at that moment. Hated her because she, Adela Marchmont, was sitting here whining for money. She thought, “I can't do it - I can't do it after all.”
In one brief instant all the long hours of thought and worry and vague planning flashed again across her brain.
Sell the house - (But move where? There weren't any small houses on the market - certainly not any cheap houses). Take paying guests - (But you couldn't get staff - and she simply couldn't - she just couldn't deal with all the cooking and housework involved. If Lynn helped - but Lynn was going to marry Rowley). Live with Rowley and Lynn herself? (No, she'd never do that!) Get a job. What job? Who wanted an untrained elderly tired-out woman?
She heard her voice, belligerent because she despised herself.
“I mean money,” she said.
“Money?” said Rosaleen.
She sounded ingenuously surprised, as though money was the last thing she expected to be mentioned.
Adela went on doggedly, tumbling the words out:
“I'm overdrawn at the bank, and I owe bills - repairs to the house - and the rates haven't been paid yet. You see, everything's halved - my income, I mean. I suppose it's taxation. Gordon, you see, used to help. With the house, I mean. He did all the repairs and the roof and painting and things like that. And an allowance as well. He paid it into the bank every quarter. He always said not to worry and of course I never did. I mean, it was all right when he was alive, but now -”
She stopped. She was ashamed - but at the same time relieved. After all, the worst was over. If the girl refused, she refused, and that was that.
Rosaleen
Nevertheless she felt dreadfully nervous as she waited in the sunny drawing-room, though she felt slightly better when Rosaleen came in with what Mrs Marchmont always thought of as her “half-witted look” more than usually marked.
“I wonder,” thought Adela to herself, “if the blast did it or if she was always like that?”
Rosaleen stammered.
“Oh, g-g-ood morning. Is there anything? Do sit down.”
“Such a lovely morning,” said Mrs Marchmont brightly. “All my early tulips are out. Are yours?”
The girl stared at her vacantly.
“I don't know.”
What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didn't talk gardening or dogs - those standbyes of rural conversation.
Aloud she said, unable to help the tinge of acidity that crept into her tone:
“Of course you have so many gardeners - they attend to all that.”
“I believe we're shorthanded. Old Mullard wants two more men, he says. But there seems a terrible shortage still of labour.”
The words came out with a kind of glib parrot-like delivery - rather like a child who repeats what it has heard a grownup person say.
Yes, she was like a child. Was that, Adela wondered, her charm? Was that what had attracted that hard-headed shrewd business man, Gordon Cloade, and blinded him to her stupidity and her lack of breeding? After all, it couldn't only be looks. Plenty of good-looking women had angled unsuccessfully to attract him.
But childishness, to a man of sixty-two, might be an attraction. Was it, could it be, real - or was it a pose - a pose that had paid and so had become second nature?
Rosaleen was saying, “David's out, I'm afraid...” and the words recalled Mrs Marchmont to herself. David might return. Now was her chance and she must not neglect it. The words stuck in her throat but she got them out.
“I wonder - if you would help me?”
“Help you?”
Rosaleen looked surprised, uncomprehending.
“I - things are very difficult - you see, Gordon's death has made a great difference to us all.”
“You silly idiot,” she thought. “Must you go on gaping at me like that? You know what I mean! You must know what I mean. After all, you've been poor yourself...”
She hated Rosaleen at that moment. Hated her because she, Adela Marchmont, was sitting here whining for money. She thought, “I can't do it - I can't do it after all.”
In one brief instant all the long hours of thought and worry and vague planning flashed again across her brain.
Sell the house - (But move where? There weren't any small houses on the market - certainly not any cheap houses). Take paying guests - (But you couldn't get staff - and she simply couldn't - she just couldn't deal with all the cooking and housework involved. If Lynn helped - but Lynn was going to marry Rowley). Live with Rowley and Lynn herself? (No, she'd never do that!) Get a job. What job? Who wanted an untrained elderly tired-out woman?
She heard her voice, belligerent because she despised herself.
“I mean money,” she said.
“Money?” said Rosaleen.
She sounded ingenuously surprised, as though money was the last thing she expected to be mentioned.
Adela went on doggedly, tumbling the words out:
“I'm overdrawn at the bank, and I owe bills - repairs to the house - and the rates haven't been paid yet. You see, everything's halved - my income, I mean. I suppose it's taxation. Gordon, you see, used to help. With the house, I mean. He did all the repairs and the roof and painting and things like that. And an allowance as well. He paid it into the bank every quarter. He always said not to worry and of course I never did. I mean, it was all right when he was alive, but now -”
She stopped. She was ashamed - but at the same time relieved. After all, the worst was over. If the girl refused, she refused, and that was that.
Rosaleen
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