Chapter 16

It was not from Marston, then, that she had to fear betrayal. Neither was she any more afraid of the rumours of the Cliff Hotel. She was aware that her engagement to Robert Lucy, unannounced but accepted for the simple fact it was, had raised her above censure and suspicion.

It had come just in time to occupy Mrs. Jurd and Miss Keating on their way to Surbiton.

When Kitty thought of Grace Keating she said to herself, "How will Bunny feel now?" But her mortal exultation was checked by her pity for poor Bunny, who would have been so happy if she had been married.

Then there were the Hankins. She reflected sanely that they couldn't be dangerous, for they knew nothing. Still she did feel a little uneasy when she thought of the Hankins.

She was thinking of them now as she and Robert sat on the Cliff, making the most of their last hour together before the arrival of the little girls.

"Robert," she said, "the Hankins are probably sitting down there under the Cliff. Supposing they see us?"

"They can't, we're over their heads."

"But if they do what do you suppose they'll think?"

"If they think at all, they'll have an inkling of the truth. But it isn't their business. The children will be here soon," he added.

She looked at him intently. Was he trying, she wondered, to reassure her that the presence of his children would protect her? Or was he merely preoccupied with the thought of their arrival?

"You don't mind," he said presently, "not coming to the station?"

He had said that already twice before. Why ask, she said, when he knew perfectly well she didn't mind?

Of course she didn't mind. She knew his idea, that they were not to be confronted with her suddenly. He meant to let her dawn on them beautifully, with the tenderest gradations. He would approach them with an incomparable cunning. He would tell them that they were going to see a very pretty lady. And when they were thoroughly inured to the idea of her, he would announce that the pretty lady was coming to stay with them, and that she would never go away.

She looked at her watch.

"We've got another half-hour before they come."

"Kitty, I believe you're afraid of them?"

"Yes, Robert, I'm afraid."

"What? Of two small children?"

"What are they like? I haven't asked you that."

"Well, Janet's a queer, uncanny little person, rather long for her age and very thin----"

"Like you?"

"Like me. At first you think she's all legs. Then you see a little white face with enormous eyes that look at you as if she was wondering what you are."

He smiled. His mind had gone off, away from her, to the contemplation of his little daughter.

"I think she is clever, but one never knows. We have to handle her very carefully. Barbara's all right. You can pitch her about like anything."

"What is Barbara like?"

"Barbara? She's round and fat and going to be pretty, like----"

"Like her mother?"

"No, like Janey, if Janey was fat. They're both a little difficult to manage. If you reprove Barbara, she bursts out laughing in your face. If you even hint to Janet that you disapprove of her, she goes away somewhere and weeps."

"Poor little thing. I'm afraid," said Kitty sadly, "they're not so very small."

"Well, Janet, I believe, is seven, and Barbara is five."

"Barbara is five. And, oh dear me, Janet is seven."

"Is that such a very formidable age?"

She laughed uneasily. "Yes. That's the age when they begin to take notice, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, they do that when they're babies. Even Barbara's grown out of that. I say, Kitty, what a lot you know."

"Don't, Robert." She looked at him imploringly and put her hand in his.

"I won't, if you'll only tell me what I'm not to do."

"You're not to tease me about the things you think I don't know. I used to nurse my little sisters, when I wasn't very big myself. I can't nurse Janet, or Barbara, can I?"

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't let me. They're too old. It won't be the same thing at all."

"Well," said Robert, and paused, hiding from her the thing that was in his mind.

"Oh, Robert, I do wish, I do wish they were really small."

"I'm sorry, Kitty. But perhaps----"

He could not hide anything from Kitty.

"No, Robert," she said, "I'm afraid there won't be any perhaps. That's one of the things I meant to tell you. But I'm not bothering about that. I meant--if they were little--little things, I shouldn't be so dreadfully afraid of them."

"Why? What do you think they'll do to you, Kitty?"

"I--don't--know."

"You needn't be alarmed. I believe they're very well-behaved. Jane has brought them up quite nicely."

"What is Jane going to do?"

"Ah--that's what I wanted to ask you about."

"You needn't ask me. You want her to stay and look after them just the same?"

"No, not just the same. I want her to stay and she won't. She says it wouldn't be fair to you."

"But--if she only would, that would make it all so easy. You see, I could look after you, and she could look after them."

"You don't want to be bored with them?"

"You know that isn't what I mean. I don't want them to suffer."

"Why _should_ they suffer?" There was some irritation in his tone.

"Because I don't think, Robert, I'm really fit to bring up children."

"I think you are. And I don't mean anybody else to bring them up. If you're my wife, Kitty, you're their mother."

"And they're to be mine as well as yours?"

"As much yours as you can make them, dear."

"Oh, how you trust me. That's what makes me so afraid. And--do you think they'll really love me?"

"Trust _them_--for that."

"You asked me if I could care for you, Robert; you never asked me if I could care for them. You trusted me for that!"

"I could have forgiven you if you couldn't care for _me_."

"But you couldn't forgive me if I didn't care for them? Is that it?"

"No; I simply couldn't understand any woman not caring for them. I think you _will_ like the little things, when you've seen them."

"I'll promise you one thing. I won't be jealous of them."

"Jealous? Why on earth should you be?"

"Some women are. I was afraid I might be that sort."

"Why?"

"Because--oh, because I care for you so awfully. But that's just it. That's why I can't be jealous of them. They're yours, you see. I can't separate them from you."

"Well, well, let's wait until you've seen them."

"Don't you believe me, Robert? Women _do_ love their children before they've seen them. I don't need to see them. I _have_ seen them. I saw them all last night."

She looked away from him, brooding, as if she still saw them.

"There's only one person I could be jealous of, and I'm not jealous of her any more."

"Poor little Jane."

"It wasn't Jane. It was their mother. I mean it was your wife."

He turned and looked at her. There was amazement in his kind, simple face.

"I suppose you think that's fiendish of me?"

He did not reply.

"But--Robert--I'm not jealous of her any more. I don't care if she was your wife."

"Kitty, my dear child----"

"I don't care if she had ten children and _I_ never had one. It's got nothing to do with it. She had you for--two years, wasn't it?"

"Two years, Kitty."

"Poor thing; and I shall have you all my life."

"Yes. And so, if you don't mind, dear, I'd rather you didn't talk about that again."

"I'm sorry. I won't ever again."

She sat silent for a moment in a sort of penitential shame. Then she burst out--

"I'm not jealous. But, Robert, if you were to leave me for another woman it would kill me. I daren't say that to any other man if I cared for him. It would just make him go and do it. But I believe somehow you'd think twice before you killed me."

He only smiled at this, and spoke gently.

"Yes, Kitty, you're right. I believe I _would_ think twice about it."

He said to himself that this fierceness, her passionate perversity, all that was most unintelligible in her, was just Kitty's way--the way of a woman recklessly, adorably in love. It stirred in him the very depths of tenderness. When she was married (they must marry very soon) she would be happy; she would understand him; she would settle down.

He looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I must be going."

She glanced at the hands of the watch over his shoulder. "You needn't," she said. "It isn't really time."

"Well--five minutes."

The five minutes went. "Time's up," he said.

"Oh, no, Robert--not yet."

"Kitty--don't you want to see them?"

"I don't want you to go."

"I'm coming back."

"Yes, but it won't be the same thing. It never will be the same thing as now."

"Poor Kitty--I say, I _must_ go and meet them."

"Very well." She stood up. "Kiss me," she said.

She took his kiss as if it were the last that would be given her.

They went together to the hotel. Jane had started five minutes ago for the station.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll catch her up."

She followed to the gates and looked down the white road where Jane had gone.

"Let me come with you--just a little way--to the first lamp-post on the station road."

"Well, to the first lamp-post."

At the lamp-post she let him go.

She stood looking after him till he swung round the turn of the road, out of her sight. Then she went back, slowly, sad-eyed, and with a great terror in her heart.