The Daughters of Mrs Peacock by Gerald Bullet Page B

There was safety in generalities.
    â€˜Will you promise then?’ Catherine persisted.
    â€˜All right. I’m not a dragon, Kitty. What is it?’
    â€˜It’s since that game of croquet,’ said Catherine, ‘with Mr Pardew.’ Her clear young voice, urgent and oddly shy, seemed to hover suspended in the warm darkness. Silence engulfed the words, a long palpitating silence in which their implications echoed and re-echoed. ‘You’re not thinking seriously of him, are you?’
    â€˜Why?’ said Sarah. ‘What if I were?’
    â€˜Oh, nothing. I only wanted to know.’
    â€˜Does it matter to you so much?’
    â€˜Not,’ said Catherine bravely, ‘if you really want him.’
    â€˜Well, you needn’t worry, donkey. I said No. Nothing could have been plainer. He won’t ask me again.’
    â€˜What on earth makes you think that? Of
course
he will. Men always do.’
    â€˜Not he though,’ said Sarah. ‘He hasn’t been near us since. It’s nearly a fortnight.’
    â€˜And you’re disappointed, aren’t you?’ It was an accusation.
    â€˜Not at all. Why should I be? He’s had his answer. It’s only logical to keep out of the way.’
    â€˜If you ask me,’ said Catherine resentfully, ‘I think it’s rather clever of him.’
    â€˜Clever? No, he’s not clever. Not in that way.’
    â€˜He’s getting you into a state. And then, in his own good time,
you’ll
see, back he’ll come.’
    â€˜Will he? I don’t think so.’
    â€˜Don’t you? I do. I’m sure of it. So if you really don’t mean to have him, you’d better be prepared.’
    â€˜Thank you for the warning, Kitty. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings … Shall we go to sleep now?’
    But sleep tonight did not come quickly to Sarah. The conversation had disturbed her more than she would admit. If he
did
ask her again, what would she say? That she could not confidently answer that question frightened her. She had had only one sight of him since the day of the proposal: in church, tall, unapproachable, priestly, reading the Lessons in a loud, polite, prefectorial voice. To see him so, a public figure, remote and impersonal in cassock and surplice, to hear him enunciating sentences too familiar to engage her thought, gave her the queerest sensation. The contrast between now and then was exciting: she could not forget that between this stranger and herself, whether she would or no, there now existed an intimate relationship, an invisible bond. How strange that a few unwelcome words could have effected so much, and all in a moment of time. Even now, in her fancy, he was thinking of her, as she of him. They shared a secret of which no one else in this crowded church, except Catherine, had any inkling. Except Catherine, sitting next to her. From time to time, waking from a dream, she became conscious of Catherine’s curious, wondering, speculative glance.
    Another Sunday came and went. At Evensong Mr Pardew occupied the pulpit.
    â€˜Did it make you laugh, the sermon?’ Catherine asked, when they were alone again.
    â€˜Not particularly.’
    â€˜I thought not,’ said Catherine sadly. Trying again, she ventured: ‘But it was very churchified, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜Naturally,’ said Sarah. ‘What else could it be? He’s not a good preacher. We’ve always known that.’
    â€˜Never mind. I’m sure you’ll brighten him up when you’re married.’
    â€˜Are you, donkey?’ said Sarah. ‘Then that’s all right, isn’t it?’
    Next day, exactly a fortnight after his former visit, he presented himself at the house half an hour before teatime. Mrs Peacock received him with her customary graciousness. He shook hands with the girls, letting his glance linger for only a moment on Sarah, and after some careful desultory