Alwynne fled down Friar's Lane in amazement, conscious only of the need of escape. She had heard the outer door of the flat close behind her, yet she felt herself pursued. Clare's voice rang in her ears. Momently she awaited the touch of Clare's hand upon her shoulder. She felt herself exhausted; knew that, once overtaken, she would be powerless to resist; that she would be led back; would submit to reconciliation and caresses. And yet she was sure that she would never willingly see Clare again. She was free, and her terror of recapture taught her what liberty meant to her. There was the whole world before her, and Elsbeth—and Roger.... She must find Roger.... She was capable of no clear thought, but very sure that with him was safety.
She hurried along in the shadow of the overhanging lilac-hedge, ears a-prick, eyes glancing to right and left. Oblivious of probabilities she saw Clare in every passer-by. At the turn of the blind lane she ran into a woman, walking towards her. She bit back a cry.
But it was only Elsbeth—Elsbeth in her Sunday gown, very determined, gripping her card-case as if it were a dagger. She spoke between relief and distress.
"Alwynne! Why did you disappear? Where have you been?"
"With Clare."
"It was more than rude. You could surely have foregone one afternoon. No one to see Roger off! After all his kindness to you at Dene!"
"See Roger off?"
Elsbeth was pleased to see her concern.
"I should have gone myself, of course, but he would not allow it. The heat—as I have to pay a call. So he saw me on my way and then went off by himself, poor Roger!"
"Where is he going? Why is he going?"
"Back to Dene. The four-five. I am afraid, Alwynne, he has been hurt and upset. Alwynne!"
But Alwynne, tugging at her watch-chain, was already running down the road with undignified speed. The four-five! Another ten minutes ... no, nine and a half.... Cutting through the gardens she might do it yet.... She prayed for her watch to be fast—the train late. She ran steadily, doggedly, oblivious of the passers-by, oblivious of heat and dust and choking breathlessness, of everything but the idea that Roger was deserting her.
As she bent round the sweep of the station yard past the shelter with its nodding cabmen, and ran down the little wall-flower-bordered asphalt path, she heard the engine's valedictory puff. The platform was noisy and crowded, alive with shouting porters, crates of poultry and burdened women, but at the upper end was Roger, his foot on the step of the carriage, obviously bribing a guard.
She pushed past the outraged ticket collector, and darted up the platform.
Roger had disappeared when she reached the door of his compartment, and the whistle had sounded, but the door was still a-swing. The train began to move as she scrambled in. The door banged upon their privacy.
"Roger!" cried Alwynne. "Roger!"
She was shaking with breathlessness and relief.
"You were right. I was wrong. It's you I want. I will do everything you want, always. I've been simply miserable. Oh, Roger—be good to me."
And for the rest of his life Roger was good to her.
Clare had paused a moment, half expecting Alwynne to return; but it was draughty on the landing and she did not wait long. Silly of Alwynne to dash off like that.... She had wanted to discuss Miss Marsham's letter with her before writing her answer.... Not that she was really undecided, of course.... The offer was an excellent one no doubt, and it was fitting that it should have been made.... But to accept the head mistress-ship was another matter.... Life was pleasant enough as it was.... She had plenty of money and Alwynne was hobby enough.... She wondered what Alwynne would say to it ... urge her to accept, probably.... Alwynne was so terribly energetic.... Well, she would let Alwynne talk ... (she picked up her pen) and when she had expended herself, Clare would produce her already written refusal.... Alwynne would pout and be annoyed.... Alwynne hated being made to look a fool.... Clare laughed as she bent over her letter.
She had achieved preliminary compliments and was hesitating as to how she should continue, when a violent rat-tat, hushing immediately to a tremulous tat-a-tat-tat, as if the success of the attack upon Clare's door had proved a little startling to the knocker, announced a visitor, and to their mutual astonishment, Elsbeth Loveday fluttered into the room. Though Elsbeth's naïve amazement at herself and her own courage was more apparent, it was scarcely greater than Clare's politely veiled surprise at the invasion, for since Alwynne's attempts to reconcile the oil and water of their reluctant personalities had ceased with her absence, there had been practically no intercourse between them. With a crooked smile for her first fleeting conviction of theimminence of a church bazaar or Sunday-school treat on gargantuan lines, Clare applied herself to the preparation of Elsbeth's tea, in no great hurry for the disclosure of the visit's object, but already slightly amused at her visitor's unease, and foreseeing a whimsical half-hour in watching her pant and stumble, unassisted, to her point.
Elsbeth was dimly aware of her hostess's attitude, and not a little nettled by it. She waved away cake and toast with a vague idea of breaking no bread in the enemy's house, but she was not the woman to resist tea, though Hecate's self brewed it. Fortified, she returned the empty cup; readjusted her veil, and opened fire.
"My dear Miss Hartill," she began, a shade too cordially, "I've come round—I do hope you're not too busy; I know how occupied you always are."
Clare was not at all busy; entirely at Miss Loveday's service.
"Ah, well, I confess I came round in the hope of finding you alone—in the hope of a quiet chat——"
Clare was expecting no visitors. But would not Miss Loveday take another cup of tea?
"Oh no, thank you. Though I enjoyed my cup immensely—delicious flavour. China, isn't it? Alwynne always quotes your tea. Poor Alwynne—she can't convert me. I've always drunk the other, you know. Not but that China tea is to be preferred for those who like it, of course. An acquired taste, perhaps—at least——" She finished with an indistinct murmur uncomfortably aware that she had not been particularly lucid in her compliments to Clare's tea.
Might Clare order a cup of Indian tea to be made for Miss Loveday? It would be no trouble; her maid drank it, she believed.
"Oh, please don't. I shouldn't dream——You know, I didn't originally intend to come to tea. But you are so very kind. I am sure you are wondering what brings me."
Clare disclaimed civilly.
"Well, to tell you the truth—I am afraid you will think me extremely roundabout, Miss Hartill——"
Clare's mouth twitched.
"But it is not an easy subject to begin. I'm somewhat worried about Alwynne——"
"Again?" Clare had stiffened, but Elsbeth was too nervous to be observant.
"Oh, not her health. She is splendidly well again—Dene did wonders." Clare found Elsbeth's quick little unexplained smile irritating. "No, this is—well, it certainly has something to do with Dene, too!"
"Indeed," said Clare.
Elsbeth continued, delicately tactless: she was always at her worst with her former pupil.
"I daresay you are surprised that I consult you, for we need not pretend, need we, that we have ever quite agreed over Alwynne? You, I know, consider me old-fashioned——" She paused a moment for a disclaimer, but Clare was merely attentive. With a little less suavity she resumed: "And of course I've always thought that you——But that, after all, has nothing to do with the matter."
"Nothing whatever," said Clare.
"Exactly. But knowing that you are fond of Alwynne, and realising your great, your very great, influence with her, I felt—indeed we both felt—that if you once realised——"
"We?"
"Roger. Mr. Lumsden."
"Oh, the gardener at Dene."
"My cousin, Miss Hartill."
"Oh. Oh, really. But what has he to do with Alwynne?"
"My dear, he wants to marry her. Didn't she tell you?" Elsbeth had the satisfaction of seeing Clare look startled. "Now I was sure Alwynne had confided the matter to you. Hasn't she just been here? That is really why I came. Iwas so afraid that you, with the best of motives, of course, might incline her to refuse him. And you know, Miss Hartill, she mustn't. The very man for Alwynne? He suits her in every way. Devoted to her, of course, but not in the least weak with her, and you know I always say that Alwynne needs a firm hand. And between ourselves, though I am the last person to consider such a thing, he is an extremely good match. I can't tell you, Miss Hartill, the joy it was to me, the engagement. I had been anxious—I quite foresaw that Alwynne would be difficult, though I am convinced she is attached to him—underneath, you know. So I made up my mind to come to you. I said to myself: 'I am sure—I am quite sure—Miss Hartill would not misunderstand the situation. I am quite sure Miss Hartill would not intend to stand in the child's light. She is far too fond of Alwynne to allow her personal feelings——' After all, feminine friendship is all very well, very delightful, of course, and I am only too sensible of your goodness to Alwynne—and taking her to Italy too—but when it is a question of Marriage—oh, Miss Hartill, surely you see what I mean?"
Clare frowned.
"I think so. The gard——This Mr. Lumpkin——"
"Lumsden."
"Of course. I was confusing him——Mr. Lumsden has proposed to Alwynne. She has refused him, and you now wish for my help in coercing her into an apparently distasteful engagement?"
"Oh no, Miss Hartill! No question of coercion. I think there is no possible doubt that she is fond of him, and if it were not for you——But Alwynne is so quixotic."
Clare lifted her eyebrows, politely blank.
"Oh, Miss Hartill—why beat about the bush? You know your influence with Alwynne. It is very difficult for me to talk to you. Please believe that I intend nothing personal—but Alwynne is so swayed by you, so entirely under your thumb; you know what a loyal, affectionate child sheis, and as far as I can gather from what Roger let fall—for she is in one of her moods and will not confide in me—she considers herself bound to you by—by the terms of your friendship. All she would say to Roger was, 'Clare comes first. Clare must come first'—which, of course, is perfectly ridiculous."
Clare reddened.
"You mean that I, or you, for that matter, who have known Alwynne for years, must step aside, must dutifully foster this liking for a comparative stranger."
Elsbeth smiled.
"Well, naturally. He's a man."
"I am sorry I can't agree. Alwynne is a free agent. If she prefers my friendship to Mr. Lumsden's adorations——"
"But I've told you already, it's a question of Marriage, Miss Hartill. Surely you see the difference? How can you weigh the most intimate, the most ideal friendship against the chance of getting married?" Elsbeth was wholly in earnest.
Clare mounted her high horse.
"I can—I do. There are better things in life than marriage."
"For the average woman? Do you sincerely say so? The brilliant woman—the rich woman—I don't count them, and there are other exceptions, of course; but when her youth is over, what is the average single woman? A derelict, drifting aimlessly on the high seas of life. Oh—I'm not very clear; it's easy to make fun of me; but I know what I mean and so do you. We're not children. We both know that an unmated woman—she's a failure—she's unfulfilled."
Clare was elaborately bored.
"Really, Miss Loveday, the subject does not interest me."
"It must, for Alwynne's sake. Don't you realise your enormous responsibility? Don't you realise that when you keep Alwynne entangled in your apron strings, blind toother interests, when you cram her with poetry and emotional literature, when you allow her to attach herself passionately to you, you are feeding, and at the same time deflecting from its natural channel, the strongest impulse of her life—of any girl's life? Alwynne needs a good concrete husband to love, not a fantastic ideal that she calls friendship and clothes in your face and figure. You are doing her a deep injury, Miss Hartill—unconsciously, I know, or I should not be here—but doing it, none the less. If you will consider her happiness——"
Clare broke in angrily—
"I do consider her happiness. Alwynne tells you that I am essential to her happiness."
"She may believe so. But she's not happy. She has not been happy for a long time. But she believes herself to be so, I grant you that. But consider the future. Shall she never break away? Shall she oscillate indefinitely between you and me, spend her whole youth in sustaining two old maids? Oh, Miss Hartill, she must have her chance. We must give her what we've missed ourselves."
Clare appeared to be occupied in stifling a yawn. Her eyes were danger signals, but Elsbeth was not Alwynne to remark them.
"In one thing, at least, I do thoroughly agree with you. I don't think there is the faintest likelihood of Alwynne's wishing to marry at all at present, but I do feel, with you, that it is unfair to expect her to oscillate, as you rhetorically put it, between two old maids. I agree, too, that I have responsibilities in connection with her. In fact, I think she would be happier if she were with me altogether, and I intend to ask her to come and live here. I shall ask her to-night. Don't you think she will be pleased?"
Clare's aim was good. Elsbeth clutched at the arms of her chair.
"You wouldn't do such a thing."
Clare laughed shrilly.
"I shall do exactly what your Mr. Lumsden wants to do.I'm not poor. I can give her a home as well as he, if you are so anxious to get her off your hands. She seems to be going begging."
Elsbeth rose.
"I'm wasting time. I'll say good-bye, Miss Hartill. I shouldn't have come. But it was for Alwynne's sake. I hoped to touch you, to persuade you to forego, for her future's sake, for the sake of her ultimate happiness, the hold you have on her. I sympathised with you. I knew it would be a sacrifice. I knew, because I made the same sacrifice two years ago, when you first began to attract her. I thought you would develop her. I am not a clever woman, Miss Hartill, and you are; so I made no stand against you; but it was hard for me. Alwynne did not make it easier. She was not always kind. But hearing you to-day, I understand. You made Alwynne suffer more than I guessed. I don't blame her if sometimes it recoiled on me. You were always cruel. I remember you. The others were always snails for you to throw salt upon. I might have known you'd never change. Do you think I don't know your effect on the children at the school? Oh, you are a good teacher! You force them successfully; but all the while you eat up their souls. Sneer if you like! Have you forgotten Louise? I tell you, it's vampirism. And now you are to take Alwynne. And when she is squeezed dry and flung aside, who will the next victim be? And the next, and the next? You grow greedier as you grow older, I suppose. One day you'll be old. What will you do when your glamour's gone? I tell you, Clare Hartill, you'll die of hunger in the end."
The small relentless voice ceased. There was a silence. Clare, who had remained quiescent for sheer amaze at the attack from so negligible a quarter, pulled herself together. Rather white, she began to clap her hands gently, as a critic surprised into applause.
"My dear woman, you're magnificent! Really you are. I never thought you had it in you. The Law and theProphets incarnate. How Alwynne will laugh when I tell her. I wish she'd been here. You ought to be on the stage, you know, or in the pulpit. Have you quite finished? Quite? Do unburden yourself completely, you won't be given another opportunity. You understand that, of course? If Alwynne wishes to see you, she must make arrangements to do so elsewhere. That is the one condition I shall make. This is the way out."
Elsbeth rose. She was furious with herself that her lips must tremble and her hands shake, as she gathered up scarf and reticule; but she followed her hostess with sufficient dignity.
Clare flung open the door with a gesture a shade too ample.
Elsbeth laughed tremulously as she passed her and crossed the hall.
"Oh, you are not altered," she said, and bent to fumble at the latch. "But it doesn't impress me. You've not won yet. You count too much on Alwynne. And you have still to reckon with Mr. Lumsden."
"And his three acres and a cow!" Clare watched her contemptuously. It did not seem worth while to keep her dignity with Elsbeth. She felt that it would be a relief to lose her temper completely, to override this opponent by sheer, crude invective. She let herself go.
"What a fool you are! Do you flatter yourself that you understand Alwynne? Go back to your Cœlebs and tell him from Alwynne—I tell you I speak for Alwynne—that he's wasting his time. Let him take his goods to another market: Alwynne won't buy. I've other plans for her—she has other plans for yourself. She doesn't want a husband. She doesn't want a home. She doesn't want children. She wants me—and all I stand for. She wants to use her talents—and she shall—through me. She wants success—she shall have it—through me. She wants friendship—can't I give it? Affection? Haven't I given it? What more can she want? A home? I'm well off. A bratto play with? Let her adopt one, and I'll house it. I'll give her anything she wants. What more can your man offer? But I won't let her go. I tell you, we suffice each other. Thank God, there are some women who can do without marriage—marriage—marriage!"
Elsbeth, as if she heard nothing, tugged at the catch. The door swung open, and she stepped quietly into the sunny passage. Then she turned to Clare, a grey, angry shadow in the dusk of the hall.
"Poor Clare!" she said. "Are the grapes very sour?"
She pulled-to the door behind her.
Later in the evening, as she sat, flushed, tremulous, utterly joyful over Roger's telegram, she considered the manner of her exit and was shocked at herself.
"I don't know what possessed me," said Elsbeth apologetically. "And if I had only known. It was unladylike—it was unwomanly—it was unchristian." She shook her head at her mild self in the glass. "But she made me so angry! If I'd only known that this was coming!" She fingered the pink envelope. "She'll think I knew. She'll always think I knew. And then to say what I did? It was unpardonable.
"But I was right, all the same," cried Elsbeth incorrigibly; "and I don't care. I'm glad I said it—I'm glad—I'm glad!"
The sun slid over the edge of the sweating earth. Its red-hot plunge into the sea behind the hills was almost audible. The black cloud, fuming up from its setting-place, was as the steam of the collision. In great clots and coils it rolled upwards, spreading as it thinned, till it was a pall of vapour that sheeted all the lemon-coloured sky. Suddenly a cold wind sprang up, raced down the silent heavens, and, by way of Eastern Europe and the North Sea and the straight Roman road that drives down England, tore along the Utterbridge byways, and into the open window of Clare Hartill's parlour. A touch of its cold lips on her hair, and brow, and breast, and it was out again, driving the dust before it.
Clare shivered. She was very tired of waiting.... It was inexplicable that Alwynne should be late; but Clare with a half laugh, promised Alwynne to forego her scolding if she would but come.... The dusk and the wind and the silence were getting on her nerves.... The tick of the hall clock, for instance, was aggressive, insistent, maddening in its precise monotony.... Oh, unbearable! With a gesture that was hysterical in its abandonment, Clare rose suddenly and flung into the hall, plucked open the clock door, and removed the pendulum. The released wire waggled foolishly into silence, like an idiot, tongue a-loll.
As the quiet hunted Clare into her sitting-room again, a little silver wire flickered down the sky like a scared snake, and for an instant she saw herself reflected in a convex mirror, a Clare bleached and shining and askew, like a St. Michael in a stained-glass window. Dusk and the thunder followed. The storm was beginning.
Clare moved about restlessly. She disliked storms. Her eyes ached, and she was cramped with waiting, and Alwynne had not come. She would, of course.... That woman had detained her, purposely, no doubt, and now there was the storm to delay her.... But Alwynne would come.... Clare smiled securely.
Again the lightning whipped across the heavens, and thunder roared in its wake.
Clare went to the window and watched the sky. The pane of glass was grateful to her hot forehead. She was too tired, too bruised and shaken by her own recent anger to arrange her thoughts, to pose for the moment, even to herself—of all audiences the most critical. The interview with Elsbeth Loveday rehearsed itself incessantly, pricking, probing, bludgeoning, in crescendo of intonation, innuendo, open attack, to the final triumphant insult. Triumphant, because true. The insult could cut through her defences and strike at her very self, because it was true. Her pride agonised. She had thought herself shrouded, invulnerable. And yet Elsbeth, whom of all women she had reckoned negligible, had guessed, had pitied.... Yet even her enemy was forgotten, as she sat and shuddered at the wound dealt; plucked and shrank, and plucked again at the arrow-tip rankling in it still.
The hours had passed in an evil mazement. But Alwynne was to come.... She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for revenge. Alwynne would come.... Alwynne would soothe and comfort, intuitive, never waiting for the cry for help.
And Alwynne should pay.... Oho! Alwynne should pay Elsbeth's debts ... should wince, and shrink, and whiten.Scientific vivisection of one nerve.Wait a little, Alwynne!—Ah, Alwynne—the dearest—the beloved—the light and laughter of one's life.... What fool is whispering that Clare can hurt her?... Alwynne shall see when she comes, who loves her.... There shall be a welcome, the royalest welcome she has ever had.... For what inall the world has Clare but Alwynne, and having Alwynne, has not Clare the world?
Ah, well.... Perhaps, she had not been always good to Alwynne.... To-day, for instance, she might have been kinder.... But Alwynne always understood.... That was the comfort of Alwynne, that she always understood.... Why didn't she come? Wasn't there an echo of a step far down the street?
When Alwynne came, they would make plans.... It would not be easy to wean the girl from her aunt, at least while they lived in the same town, the same country.... But one could travel, could take Alwynne quite away.... Italy.... Greece.... Egypt.... they would go round the world together, shake off the school and all it stood for.... In a new world, begin a new life.... Why not? She had money enough to burn.... It would not be hard to persuade Alwynne, adventurous, infatuate.... Once gone, Elsbeth might whistle for her niece.... They would talk it over to-morrow ... to-night ... as soon as Alwynne came....
Was that thunder or a knocking? Rat-tat! Rat-tat! She had not been mistaken after all.... Alwynne! Alwynne!
And Clare, with an appearance on her that even Alwynne had never seen, ran like a child to open the door.
On the threshold stood a messenger boy, proffering a telegram. She took it.
"Any answer, Miss!" for she had offered to close the door.
"Oh, of course!" She frowned, and pulled open the flimsy sheet.
The boy waited. He peered past her, interested in the odd pictures on the walls, and the glimpse of a table luxuriously set. The minutes sped. He had soon seen all he could, and began to fidget.
"Any answer, Miss?" he hinted.
"Oh!" said Clare vaguely. "Answer? No. No answer. No answer at all."
The boy knuckled his forehead and clattered away down the staircase.
Mechanically Clare shut the door, locked and bolted it and secured it with the chain. Then she returned to the sitting-room and crossed to her former station by the open window.
The storm was ending in a downpour of furious tropical rain. It beat in unheeded upon her thin dress and bare neck and the open telegram in her hands, as, with lips parted and a faint, puzzled pucker between her brows, she conned over the message—
I cannot come to-night.—I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger.
She read it and re-read, twisting it this way and that, for it was barely visible in the wet dusk. It seemed an eternity before its full meaning dawned upon her. And yet she had known all there was to know when she confronted the messenger boy (Oh, Destiny is up to date) and took her sentence from his grimy hand.
I am going to marry Roger.
"Very well, Alwynne!" Clare flung up her head, up and back. Her face was drowned in the shadows of the crimson curtain, but her neck caught the last of the light, shone like old marble. The whole soul of her showed for an instant in its defiant outline, in the involuntary pulsation that quivered across its rigidity, in the uncontrollable flutter beneath the chin.
The thin, capable fingers twisted and clenched over the sodden paper.
She moved at last, spoke into space. Passion, anger, and the cool contempt of the school-mistress for a mutinous class, mingled grotesquely in her voice.
"Very well, Alwynne! Just as you please, of course. There is no more to be said." She tossed away the little ball of paper as she spoke.
She wandered aimlessly about the room; turned to her book-shelves after a while, and stood a long time, pullingout volume after volume, opening each at random, reading a page, closing the book again, letting it slide from her hand, never troubling to replace it. She was tired at last and turned to her writing-table.
It was piled high with exercise-books, and she corrected a couple before she swept them also aside.
The rain had not faltered in its swishing downfall. It beat against the panes, and on to the sill, and dripped down into a pool beneath the open window.
"She will have to come back on Monday," said Clare suddenly. "She can't go off like that. There's the school——" She broke off abruptly, as a gust of wind soughed by.
I cannot come. I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger.She could hear Alwynne's voice in it, answering.
"But why?" cried Clare piteously. "Why? What is it? What have I done?"
"S'hush!" sighed the rain. "S'hush!"
"I loved her," cried Clare. "I loved her. What have I done?"
"S'hush!" sobbed the rain. "S'hush! S'hush!"
She turned to the darkening windows, and started, and shuddered away again, stricken dumb and shaking. A pool of something red and wet was spreading over the polished boards, and a thin trickle was stealing forward to her feet.
Blood?
Fool.... The red of the curtains reflected, tingeing a pool of rain-water.... Blood, nevertheless.... She had forgotten Louise.
What had Alwynne heard? A garbled version of that last interview? Fool again—unless the dead can speak.... But Alwynne knew.... Something had been revealed to her, suddenly, during their idle talk.... But when? But how? She had come as a lover ... she had left as a stranger ... what in any god's name, had sheguessed? Clare's subconscious memory reproduced for her instantly, with photographic accuracy, details of the scene that she had not even known she had observed. Alwynne had changed, in an instant, between a word and a reply.... What was it that Clare had said—what trifling, teasing nothing, flung out in pure wantonness? But Alwynne's face, her dear face, had become, for an instant—Clare strained to the memory—as the face of Louise.... Louise had looked at her like that, that other day.... What had they seen then, both of them? Was she Gorgon to bring that look into their faces? Louise—yes—she could understand Louise.... She did not care to think about Louise.... But Alwynne—what had she ever done to Alwynne? At least Alwynne might tell her what she had done.... She would not submit to it.... She would not be put aside.... She would at least have justice....
I am going to marry Roger.
Useless! All useless! The struggle was over before she had known she was fighting.... She knew that in Alwynne's life there was no longer any part for her. And Clare had travelled far that evening, to phrase it thus. Sharing was a strange word for her to use. But she recognised dully that even sharing was out of her power. What had she to do with a husband, and housewifery, and the bearing of children? Alwynne married was Alwynne dead.
Alwynne in love.... Alwynne married.... Alwynne putting any living thing before Clare! She broke into bitter laughter at the idea. What had happened? What had Clare done or left undone? She realised grimly that of this at least she might be sure—it had been her own doing.... No influence could have wrought against her own.... Alwynne, at least, was where she was, because Clare had sent her, not because another had beckoned.... And that was the comfort she had stored up for herself, to last her in the lean years to come....
What was the use of regretting?
Alwynne was gone.... Then forget her.... There were other fish in the sea.... There was a promising class this term.... That child in the Fourth.... She wondered if Alwynne had noticed her.... She must ask Alwynne.... Alwynne had gone away, had gone to Dene, was going to marry Roger....
Well, there was always work.... Where was that letter to Miss Marsham?
She moved stiffly in her seat, lit a candle, and drew towards her the half-written sheet that lay open on the blotter. She re-read it.
You will, I am sure, understand how much I appreciate your offer of the partnership, but after much consideration I have decided——
She hesitated, crossed out thebutand wrote anandabove it, and continued—
—to accept it. I will come to tea to-morrow, as you kindly suggest.
She finished the letter, signed it, stamped and addressed, and sat idle at last, staring down at it.
The neat handwriting danced, and flickered, and grew dim.
With an awkward gesture she put her hands to her eyes, and brought them away again, wet. She smiled at that, a twisted, mocking smile. She supposed she was crying.... She did not remember ever having done such a thing....
So her future was decided.... It was to be work and loneliness—loneliness and work ... because, it seemed, she had no friends left.... Yet Alwynne had promised many things.... What had she done to Alwynne? What had she done?
She turned within herself and reviewed her life as she remembered it, thought by thought, word by word, action by action. Faces rose about her, whispering reminders, forgotten faces of the many who had loved her: from her old nurse, dead long ago, to Louise, and Alwynne, and foolish Olivia Pring.
The candle at her elbow flared and dribbled, and died at last with a splutter and a gasp. She paid no heed.
When the dawn came, she was still sitting there, thinking—thinking.
March 1914—September 1915.
THE END
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Transcriber's Note:Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized.Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below.Page22, "critise" changed to "criticise". ("Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching.")Page26, "inacessible" changed to "inaccessible". (Miss Hartill, who had been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time.)Page29, "Tallyerand" changed to "Talleyrand". (Marengo—Talleyrand—never heard of 'em!)Page30, "returned" changed to "return". (But to return to Napoleon and the Lower Third——)Page31, "warned" changed to "warmed". (And how it warmed the cockles of one's heart to her!)Page43, "all all" changed to "all". (Clare thanked the gods of her unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full the cushioning sense of security;)Page47, "shouldnt'" changed to "shouldn't". (Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty—an essay onThe Dark Tower.)Page83, "scretly" changed to "secretly". (and she would pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;)Page88, "a a" changed to "a". (She could not believe in simplicity combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her eyes.)Page89, "negligble" changed to "negligible". (So that negligible and mouse-like woman had been aware—all along ...)Page100, "eucalyplyptus" changed to "eucalyptus". (Before the evening was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus.)Page108, "Clarke" changed to "Clare". ("Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy.)Page135, "Louise's" changed to "Clare's". (And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out the rhyme ofThe River.)Page152, "Cnythia" changed to "Cynthia". ("And yet it bores her too——" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly.)Page155, "Wail" changed to "Wait". ("Wait till you get a best boy.")Page186, "then" changed to "them". ("You begin by being heavenly to people—and then you tantalise them.")Page250, "phrase" changed to "phase". (Elsbeth, not unused to disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce, knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance.)Page370, "so" changed to "to". (She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she felt to be right....)Page413, "Alwyne" changed to "Alwynne". (She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for revenge.)
Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized.
Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below.
Page22, "critise" changed to "criticise". ("Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching.")
Page26, "inacessible" changed to "inaccessible". (Miss Hartill, who had been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time.)
Page29, "Tallyerand" changed to "Talleyrand". (Marengo—Talleyrand—never heard of 'em!)
Page30, "returned" changed to "return". (But to return to Napoleon and the Lower Third——)
Page31, "warned" changed to "warmed". (And how it warmed the cockles of one's heart to her!)
Page43, "all all" changed to "all". (Clare thanked the gods of her unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full the cushioning sense of security;)
Page47, "shouldnt'" changed to "shouldn't". (Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty—an essay onThe Dark Tower.)
Page83, "scretly" changed to "secretly". (and she would pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;)
Page88, "a a" changed to "a". (She could not believe in simplicity combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her eyes.)
Page89, "negligble" changed to "negligible". (So that negligible and mouse-like woman had been aware—all along ...)
Page100, "eucalyplyptus" changed to "eucalyptus". (Before the evening was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus.)
Page108, "Clarke" changed to "Clare". ("Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy.)
Page135, "Louise's" changed to "Clare's". (And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out the rhyme ofThe River.)
Page152, "Cnythia" changed to "Cynthia". ("And yet it bores her too——" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly.)
Page155, "Wail" changed to "Wait". ("Wait till you get a best boy.")
Page186, "then" changed to "them". ("You begin by being heavenly to people—and then you tantalise them.")
Page250, "phrase" changed to "phase". (Elsbeth, not unused to disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce, knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance.)
Page370, "so" changed to "to". (She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she felt to be right....)
Page413, "Alwyne" changed to "Alwynne". (She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for revenge.)