Chapters (15)
‘Forgive me,’ she begged, but her voice was so tired she wondered if they could hear it. She raised it with an effort. Only the gate-lodge child mattered now, she said. Only he was important, since he was their inheritor.
Carriglas, October 27th, 1931. In the drawing-room the pages of the Irish Times rustled as John James turned them. There was the sound of the flint sparking in Villana’s cigarette-lighter. No one spoke. Mr Balt seemed awkward and upset, as puzzled as I was myself, both of us beyond the family pale. Since their marriage Villana has been attentive to him in a way I had hardly thought she would be, fussing over how his eggs are cooked and his clothes ironed. ‘Finnamore,’ he has said to me. ‘You must call me Finnamore, for I should like to call you Sarah.’ I must remember that. I must address him as Finnamore, though I know I shall continue to write Mr Balt in my diary and I shall always think of him as Mr Balt. Of that I’m certain.
Later tonight, as I passed the door of the nursery-schoolroom, I heard his voice raised. ‘But nothing could,’ he urgently exclaimed. ‘Nothing on earth could ever change my feelings for you.’ There was a murmur in reply, and with greater passion than before he repeated this confirmation of his attachment.
In my bedroom, as now I write, I hear again the old woman’s insistent voice rambling on about the butler’s death and provision for the gate-lodge child. Through a flicker of lamplight Villana glances away, as though seeking solace in the shadowy flowers of the garden. John James sighs. And in Lionel’s eyes there is such pain as I have never seen before in a human face.
Carriglas, November 22nd, 1931. The man came today to make an offer for Mrs Rolleston’s jewellery. It was accepted on her insistence.
Carriglas, November 27th, 1931. ‘You have made provision?’ she said at dinner, addressing her grandson-in-law. ‘You have seen to my wishes?’ He replied that the matter had been discussed with her grandchildren, and then proceeded to go into detail as to the agreement reached. She cut him short. She did not wish to hear, she stated sharply. ‘In no way do I distrust you, Finnamore,’ she added later on.
Carriglas, November 30th, 1931. ‘I beg you,’ I said. ‘I beg you to tell me.’ I could not prevent those words. It was, indeed, all I could do to prevent myself from saying more, from confessing that I had loved him since the day he’d complimented me on the tennis-court. I waited, looking at him, willing him to speak to me. He smiled and only said, most sadly: ‘Dear Sarah. Dear, generous Sarah.’