“There’s no ‘but.’ You must have been thinking of her for a long time. On Friday night--Saturday morning, I mean--you must have gone down there with the full intention of proposing to her; didn’t you?”
Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to the window.
“It’s no good,” he said, and his back was turned to them. “It’s no good. I can’t make you understand. You won’t believe what I say. I seem an awful beast to you, I know, but--oh, well, things went that way.”
And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the blind towards the long, gray stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother’s hand upon his shoulder.
“Roland,” she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her voice, “Roland, please tell me this. You’re not, are you, marrying this girl for her money?”
He turned and looked her full in the eyes.
“No, mother,” he said. “I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want to marry her.” As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes, her hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was metallic.
“Very well, then, if that’s so, there’s no more to be said. As you’ve arranged all this yourself, you’ll let us know when the marriage will take place.”
She turned away. He took a step towards her.
But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what was going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it was no affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no longer.
“Oh, please, one of you, won’t you say something?”
They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of speech.
“But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?”
“Your mother’s quite right,” said Mr. Whately. “You’re your own master; you’ve arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?”
And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them, pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It would do no good.