Frederick, Frederick's child--come to her, pillowed on her,
because they were unhappy, because they had been hurt. . . They would
need her then, if they had been hurt; they would let themselves be
loved then, if they were unhappy.
Well, the child was gone, would never come now; but perhaps
Frederick--some day--when he was old and tired . . .
Such were Mrs. Arbuthnot's reflections and emotions that first
day at San Salvatore by herself. She went back to tea dejected as she
had not been for years. San Salvatore had taken her carefully built-up
semblance of happiness away from her, and given her nothing in
exchange. Yes--it had given her yearnings in exchange, this ache and
longing, this queer feeling of bosom; but that was worse than nothing.
And she who had learned balance, who never at home was irritated but
always able to be kind, could not, even in her dejection, that
afternoon endure Mrs. Fisher's assumption of the position as hostess at
tea.
One would have supposed that such a little thing would not have
touched her, but it did. Was her nature changing? Was she to be not
only thrown back on long--stifled yearnings after Frederick, but also
turned into somebody who wanted to fight over little things? After
tea, when both Mrs. Fisher and Lady Caroline had disappeared again--it
was quite evident that nobody wanted her--she was more dejected than
ever, overwhelmed by the discrepancy between the splendour outside her,
the warm, teeming beauty and self-sufficiency of nature, and the blank
emptiness of her heart.
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