After Mrs. Royall’s death there was some talk of sending her to a boarding-school. Miss Hatchard suggested it, and had a long conference with Mr. Royall, who, in pursuance of her plan, departed one day for Starkfield to visit the institution she recommended. He came back the next night with a black face; worse, Charity observed, than she had ever seen him; and by that time she had had some experience.
When she asked him how soon she was to start he answered shortly, “You ain’t going,” and shut himself up in the room he called his office; and the next day the lady who kept the school at Starkfield wrote that “under the circumstances” she was afraid she could not make room just then for another pupil.
Charity was disappointed; but she understood. It wasn’t the temptations of Starkfield that had been Mr. Royall’s undoing; it was the thought of losing her. He was a dreadfully “lonesome” man; she had made that out because she was so “lonesome” herself. He and she, face to face in that sad house, had sounded the depths of isolation; and though she felt no particular affection for him, and not the slightest gratitude, she pitied him because she was conscious that he was superior to the people about him, and that she was the only being between him and solitude. Therefore, when Miss Hatchard sent for her a day or two later, to talk of a school at Nettleton, and to say that this time a friend of hers would “make the necessary arrangements,” Charity cut her short with the announcement that she had decided not to leave North Dormer.
Miss Hatchard reasoned with her kindly, but to no purpose; she simply repeated: “I guess Mr. Royall’s too lonesome.”
Miss Hatchard blinked perplexedly behind her eye- glasses. Her long frail face was full of puzzled wrinkles, and she leant forward, resting her hands on the arms of her mahogany armchair, with the evident desire to say something that ought to be said.
“The feeling does you credit, my dear.”
She looked about the pale walls of her sitting-room, seeking counsel of ancestral daguerreotypes and didactic samplers; but they seemed to make utterance more difficult.
“The fact is, it’s not only–not only because of the advantages. There are other reasons. You’re too young to understand—-”
“Oh, no, I ain’t,” said Charity harshly; and Miss Hatchard blushed to the roots of her blonde cap. But she must have felt a vague relief at having her explanation cut short, for she concluded, again invoking the daguerreotypes: “Of course I shall always do what I can for you; and in case….in case….you know you can always come to me….”
Lawyer Royall was waiting for Charity in the porch when she returned from this visit. He had shaved, and brushed his black coat, and looked a magnificent monument of a man; at such moments she really admired him.
“Well,” he said, “is it settled?”
“Yes, it’s settled. I ain’t going.”
“Not to the Nettleton school?”
“Not anywhere.”
He cleared his throat and asked sternly: “Why?”
“I’d rather not,” she said, swinging past him on her way to her room. It was the following week that he brought her up the Crimson Rambler and its fan from Hepburn. He had never given her anything before.
The next outstanding incident of her life had happened two years later, when she was seventeen. Lawyer Royall, who hated to go to Nettleton, had been called there in connection with a case. He still exercised his profession, though litigation languished in North Dormer and its outlying hamlets; and for once he had had an opportunity that he could not afford to refuse. He spent three days in Nettleton, won his case, and came back in high good-humour. It was a rare mood with him, and manifested itself on this occasion by his talking impressively at the supper-table of the “rousing welcome” his old friends had given him. He wound up confidentially: “I was a damn fool ever to leave Nettleton. It was Mrs. Royall that made me do it.”
Charity immediately perceived that something bitter had happened to him, and that he was trying to talk down the recollection. She went up to bed early, leaving him seated in moody thought, his elbows propped on the worn oilcloth of the supper table. On the way up she had extracted from his overcoat pocket the key of the cupboard where the bottle of whiskey was kept.