Ankle Deep

by Angela Thirkell

  “Yes, mother.”

  “He went so quietly I didn’t hear him,” said Mrs. Howard, trying to find an excuse for her interference, “and I just came down to see where you were,” she added, with a sense of sounding imbecile. What if Aurea suddenly realized that her mother had been suspecting her of an elopement?

  “Yes, he went very quietly,” said Aurea, pushing the heavy sofa back against the wall.

  Her toneless voice and abstracted manner made her mother’s fears return.

  “It’s all right, isn’t it, darling?” said she, hating herself for interfering, but so anxious for her daughter that she couldn’t help it.

  Aurea stood up and looked at the fire once more. Once more she spoke straight into the dying flames.

  “Yes, quite all right. I love him more than I have ever loved anyone in my life.”

  Mrs. Howard sat down and looked at her aghast. It had come to this. My poor, poor child, was her thought; and again, I never guessed how deep it was. And again she thought, poor Mr. Ensor to have to leave my darling Aurea like this. Aurea felt sorry for her mother, even through the web of dull grief that held her fast.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” she said in her light, clear voice. “I haven’t even kissed him, and he only kissed the top of my head, which doesn’t count.”

  “My darling.”

  “Of course we’ll always be friends, but the word doesn’t mean so much just now, when I love him so much.”

  Only a shattering emotion could make Aurea speak of herself like that. Hardly ever since she grew up had she spoken so directly to her mother, who understood by that, more than by anything else, how much her daughter was suffering.

  “And I was so afraid of your being hurt,” she exclaimed piteously, as if asking Aurea forgiveness for something.

  “Hurt?” said Aurea, as if surprised. “But I’ve never been anything else, mother. I’ve never had a moment’s happiness out of it and never shall — though that, of course,” she added cheerfully, “serves one right for misplacing one’s affections.”

  “Is there nothing I can do, darling,” said her mother, almost timidly.

  “Nothing, thank you, mother dear. I am too ill.”

  “Ill, darling? You didn’t tell me that. What is it?”

  “I am ill,” said Aurea slowly, “of an illness which I haven’t the strength to get well of.” When this had sunk into her mother’s mind, she continued fiercely, “And even if I had the strength, I haven’t the will. And if I could have the will, I wouldn’t.”

  Mrs. Howard had nothing to say.

  “And now, as I am so very tired,” said Aurea conversationally, “and have all my packing to finish, I think I had better go to bed, and having a clear conscience I expect to sleep well, so good night, darling, and don’t worry.”

  “Good night, my pet. I’ll try not to.”

  At the door Aurea paused to say, “I shan’t be seeing Valentine again. If he telephones before I go, I’m not there. But when I have gone will you ring him up, mother, and give him my love, and say I’ll never forget him.”

  Mrs. Howard looked up with a stricken face. “Oh, Aurea, my child,” was all she could say.

  Aurea came back and hugged her mother tightly. Then she went upstairs to bed. Her story has no end. Only, in time, she will be able to look back steadfastly on those few weeks, acknowledge her own folly without blenching, and laugh not unkindly, at her own pitiful inexperience. What she will think of Valentine by then is another question; but compassion will never be wanting.

  *

  Mrs. Howard sat for some time in silence. The fire had died down, and she felt chilly. She got up and looked around the room. Some cushions were lying in huddled disorder on the sofa. Mechanically she shook them up and laid them in their proper places.

  “Oh, why didn’t I guess and understand?” she said aloud. “But what could I have done? It’s hard work being a mother.”

  She sighed deeply and, turning out the lights, went slowly upstairs. Outside her bedroom she paused in the darkness to listen, but there was no sound.

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