(no subject)
This follows on from this, by the incomparable nineveh-uk.
He picked up the box, the same box Bunter had wrapped the vase in. It rattled with a sharp sound of broken glass. He hoped it was because the vase had broken in the post. He considered opening it, but decided against, and pushed it firmly to the back of a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
The following year, as Christmas approached with no news of Harriet, he remembered the package. He picked a time when Bunter was safely out of the house on an errand, and retrieved it from the drawer and opened it. With some relief, he noted that at least the vase did not seem to have been smashed against a wall. There was a note inside. He unfolded it gingerly. "Dear Lord Peter..."
So this was how she felt. Humiliated by his attentions. He had known it for some time, but had been afraid to admit it to himself. Now he could not pretend any more. He sat looking at the broken shards of vase, and wondered bleakly whether he had alienated her beyond all hope of retrieval. He winced as he thought back to their first meeting. She, so grave and dignified, despite the shadow of the gallows. He the selfish brute who thought not of her, but only of his own overmastering desires. He could hear her saying wearily, "I'll live with you if you like, but I won't marry you," and he acknowledged for the first time the note of defeat in her voice. In the end, was he no better than Philip Boyes, who had badgered her to death, and then, in her words, "made a fool" of her?
He cursed once again the dirty trick of fate, which had tantalizingly shown him the woman of his dreams, but made it impossible for him to pursue her as he would any other woman. He did not doubt his own attractiveness, to women in general, and to Harriet in particular. Indeed, on occasion, she had appeared to his experienced eye to be susceptible. But stubbornly, perhaps perversely, he refused to consider that approach. If he had learned anything in the two years he had known Harriet, it was that her prickly integrity was central to his desire. He wanted all of her, or nothing, even if nothing seemed increasingly likely to be what he would get.
Where was she now? He reflected that sales must be good, to sustain her prolonged absence from England. Would he call her when she returned? He thought, on balance, that he would. If he were to be honest, he did not think he could stop himself. But things would be different. Enough of humiliation. Enough of discreet little restaurants and obscure roadside inns. He was not ashamed to be seen with her; he would not act as if he were ashamed. But he would give her space. Thinking with distaste of his burst of free speech in Wilvercombe, he vowed that there would be no more displays of emotion.
He refolded the note, putting it back in the drawer with the newspaper cuttings. The broken remains of the vase and the crushed package he swept into the wastepaper basket. Bunter would clean it up later, and think.... God knows what.
He picked up the box, the same box Bunter had wrapped the vase in. It rattled with a sharp sound of broken glass. He hoped it was because the vase had broken in the post. He considered opening it, but decided against, and pushed it firmly to the back of a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
The following year, as Christmas approached with no news of Harriet, he remembered the package. He picked a time when Bunter was safely out of the house on an errand, and retrieved it from the drawer and opened it. With some relief, he noted that at least the vase did not seem to have been smashed against a wall. There was a note inside. He unfolded it gingerly. "Dear Lord Peter..."
So this was how she felt. Humiliated by his attentions. He had known it for some time, but had been afraid to admit it to himself. Now he could not pretend any more. He sat looking at the broken shards of vase, and wondered bleakly whether he had alienated her beyond all hope of retrieval. He winced as he thought back to their first meeting. She, so grave and dignified, despite the shadow of the gallows. He the selfish brute who thought not of her, but only of his own overmastering desires. He could hear her saying wearily, "I'll live with you if you like, but I won't marry you," and he acknowledged for the first time the note of defeat in her voice. In the end, was he no better than Philip Boyes, who had badgered her to death, and then, in her words, "made a fool" of her?
He cursed once again the dirty trick of fate, which had tantalizingly shown him the woman of his dreams, but made it impossible for him to pursue her as he would any other woman. He did not doubt his own attractiveness, to women in general, and to Harriet in particular. Indeed, on occasion, she had appeared to his experienced eye to be susceptible. But stubbornly, perhaps perversely, he refused to consider that approach. If he had learned anything in the two years he had known Harriet, it was that her prickly integrity was central to his desire. He wanted all of her, or nothing, even if nothing seemed increasingly likely to be what he would get.
Where was she now? He reflected that sales must be good, to sustain her prolonged absence from England. Would he call her when she returned? He thought, on balance, that he would. If he were to be honest, he did not think he could stop himself. But things would be different. Enough of humiliation. Enough of discreet little restaurants and obscure roadside inns. He was not ashamed to be seen with her; he would not act as if he were ashamed. But he would give her space. Thinking with distaste of his burst of free speech in Wilvercombe, he vowed that there would be no more displays of emotion.
He refolded the note, putting it back in the drawer with the newspaper cuttings. The broken remains of the vase and the crushed package he swept into the wastepaper basket. Bunter would clean it up later, and think.... God knows what.