Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
—goodness me, when Arthur and I are dead and buried!—our boy Will might succeed. Cheniston is a noble seat; the Spenworth title is old and was once honoured; but neither for my husband nor my son do I want them—at that cost.
I said nothing. . . I believe I murmured to myself: “You wicked child”; but, literally, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see . . . or hear. Brackenbury was making furious arrangements. As in a dream I saw Ruth being wrapped in a fur-coat. . . A car came to the door and drove away. . . I asked my boy to ascertain which was my room and to lend me the support of his arm up the stairs. . .
Ruth telegraphed next day from Rugely—just two words—“All well.” . . .
Will and I returned to London by train. Phyllida was in the hall, reading the telegram, as I appeared.
“It nearly came off,” she said. “I’m sorry—for your sake—that you’ve had a disappointment. Time, you will find, works wonders; and some day, perhaps, you will be more grateful than I can expect to find you now. If I were you, I would go right away. . .”
What she intended to convey I have no more idea than the man in the moon. . . The
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