Miss Ethel was walking up and down the garden with Laura Temple, both talking.
"I heard Caroline practising on the typewriter as I came through the hall. The kitchen door was open," said Laura.
"Yes. She goes out much less now than she used to do. I fancy she has broken off her engagement with that young man."
"I'm glad Godfrey thought of lending her a machine, for it may make her more satisfied to remain with you; but I daresay that was his idea," said Laura. "He is like that."
"Is he?" said Miss Ethel rather shortly, and added after a moment: "It was very kind of him, of course." She paused again, then broke out vehemently: "I hate and detest all this conciliating and kowtowing. If only I could manage the work myself, I wouldn't do it."
"But you can't—at least, not in this house," said Laura. She also paused, looking deprecatingly at Miss Ethel. "Now, in one of those little new houses in Emerald Avenue, you might manage all right."
"Oh, well, there are none to let," said Miss Ethel, "so that is out of the question."
"But there is one for sale," said Laura: and with that she put her hand through her companion's arm. "Miss Ethel," she went on rather timidly, "Godfrey was wondering if anything would induce you to sell the Cottage. He says he can get a most splendid price for it just now, if you cared to sell. A man who made a tremendous lot out of trawlers or something of that sort in the war is ready to give almost anything you like to ask for it. And Godfrey could offer you a house in Emerald Avenue with vacant possession. You would be quite comfortable there, besides having so much less work."
"Why didn't Godfrey come and tell me that himself, instead of sending you to do his job?" said Miss Ethel. "But his commercial instinct is his ruling passion, of course. He'd make use of anything or anybody for business purposes." She waited a second, then burst forth: "He'd tan his grandmother if he could get a connection by selling her skin."
"You do him a great injustice," said Laura indignantly. "If he did not consider this a good thing for you, he would never have suggested it."
"Well, perhaps not," responded Miss Ethel, exercising great self-control; for she remembered that Godfrey was a Wilson, while the girl to whom she spoke was after all not one yet. "I dare say he means it for the best. But I'd rather starve here than live in Emerald Avenue. Please tell him that. I'm not so fond of my fellows that I could tolerate hearing the next-door neighbour snore through the bedroom wall—which I understand you can do in these houses, if he snores loud enough. I'm used to a decent privacy." She paused. "I couldn't stand it, Laura," she added in a different tone. "Let us talk about something else. I want you to come indoors and see your wedding present."
Laura turned her brown eyes full upon Miss Ethel, flushing a little and smiling happily. She wore a rough tweed which exactly suited the slight angularity and awkwardness of her tall figure, making it seem just the kind of figure which every English girl living in the country ought to possess, and her voice, always lovely, took on an added sweetness as she said quickly: "Doesn't it seem strange that a month to-day I shall be married? I can hardly believe it."
Miss Ethel responded to that rather bleakly, but asked Laura to come and inspect some china on the kitchen dresser from which she might choose her wedding present.
As they entered the kitchen Caroline answered Laura's greeting civilly, but she did not rise; and while the two stood looking at the pretty Dresden china cups, with their backs turned towards her, she continued her typing. Then after a while Miss Ethel went away to fetch some small silver teaspoons bearing the Wilson crest which she intended to give with the cups, so Caroline and Laura were left alone for a few minutes.
"I see you are practising hard," said Laura. "I hope the machine goes well." She glanced at the pretty cups. "I do seem to be lucky, don't I?"
"Yes. You're one of the lucky ones," said Caroline. But though she smiled, there was a sound of bitterness in her tone which Laura was quick to feel and understand. Poor child, it must seem a bit hard to see another girl having a lover like Godfrey, and lovely presents, and new clothes. Then a sudden kind thought came into her head. "Miss Raby, I wonder if you would care to have a look at my trousseau? I am showing it to my friends next week. Could you come in for half an hour?"
Caroline hesitated, but the "Miss Raby," and the utter absence of patronage, or of any other feeling but sheer good-nature, dispersed her prickly fear of being condescended to, though she only answered rather nonchalantly: "Thank you, Miss Temple, I should be pleased to have a look at your things."
"That's right. What day can you come?" said Laura. "Will Tuesday do?"
"I am on duty all day next week, excepting for meal-times, but I could get in for a few minutes about five," said Caroline.
Very soon after that Laura went away, and a little later, Miss Ethel herself came out of the door, walking slowly across the garden because she did not yet feel at all well. As she went, she noticed for the first time a little flag flying on the roof-beams of the new house that was being built just over the privet hedge. It flapped gaily in the sea-breeze, and seemed to Miss Ethel's irritated perceptions an impudent flag, though she did not formulate her thoughts and was conscious only of a sense of annoyance when she caught sight of the bright patch of colour.
As she glanced up the long hot road outside the garden, her heart almost failed her: but she had collected for the Flodmouth hospital for the past twenty-five years, and a strong sense of duty urged her to continue—especially now that the people from whom she generally collected were less able to give, and more houses had to be visited. But she was not uplifted by any feeling of self-righteousness, because it was just one of the things you did—and there was an end of it. It was a part of the system of life on which she had been brought up.
Half-way between the Cottage and Emerald Avenue she saw the Vicar on the other side of the road. His first impulse was to hasten past without speaking, because he had grown rather weary of her constant diatribes against the changed state of the world; for he too had his full share of the discomforts which come from living in an age of transition, so he felt no desire to hear Miss Ethel press the point home. However, she had been ill and he must do the polite. But as he expected, she at once began. In answer to his inquiries about her health, she said abruptly: "Of course, I'm depressed. How can one be anything else with the world as it is? Nobody seems to be happy here, or to be sure of happiness hereafter."
"You won't mend it by being miserable," said the Vicar, rubbing his lean chin. "I know many feel that it is wrong to be happy with so much injustice and misery about, and there is a great danger that the best souls—who feel this most—may therefore give up creating happiness. But that is just the same as if the violets gave up smelling sweet because of the stenches that abound everywhere. Joy after a while will leave us if we are not careful—then we shall have nothing left but bitterness and pleasure."
"Pleasure is all people want nowadays," said Miss Ethel.
"But you are one of the people—and what do you want?" said the Vicar. "No, Miss Ethel; there are now more men and women in the world wanting to make things right for everybody than ever before in the history of mankind. I sometimes feel as though I could see all the millions just waiting to be shown how to do it. One wonders——" He broke off, flushing a little, and added rather awkwardly: "Well, I must be getting on. I'm glad to hear you are better."
Miss Ethel continued her walk, pondering the Vicar's words. Was the man thinking about the second coming of Christ?… And she remembered how a nursemaid had read some magazine aloud to her long, long ago by the nursery fire in which the very day and hour of the end of the world were given. How she had trembled afterwards at the tipping of a load of bricks in the road forbear that was the Day of Judgment beginning. Then her thoughts came back again to the present. Was it true that all these millions were waiting for a leader? Faith seemed to be dying everywhere. Everything was different—everything was different.
The words drifted achingly through her mind as she turned into the gate of a largish house facing the main road, opening her collecting-book as she went, so as to be ready with the name and amount. At once she began to adjust her mind, ready for the short chat with the lady of the house which was a necessary accompaniment of her round.
But it would be easier than usual to-day, for a topic was ready to hand—most of the ladies on whom she called taking a lively interest in the Temple-Wilson wedding, anxious to know if Miss Ethel had seen the bride lately, and if it were true that the trousseau surpassed all previous ones ever seen in Thorhaven.
This interest was so widespread, indeed, that on Tuesday afternoon when Caroline remarked just before leaving the pay-box on the promenade that she was going to have a look at Miss Temple's wedding outfit, the girl who took her place immediately went through varying stages of surprise, curiosity and envy. "She asked you! Well, you've got something out of living with those old women for once. I wish I was going too!"
"Wish you were!" called back Caroline, insincerely. But as she went alone down the road to the little house at the other end of the village, her own desire to see the trousseau died away, so that when she stood on the threshold looking through at the patch of bright garden through the farther door, she began to wish she had not come. As she stood there, Laura came from the garden, in which the colours were less delicate, more vivid than before, but they still bloomed with the peculiar, clear brightness which flowers seem to gain which have survived the sharp spring of the East Coast.
"Oh! I am so glad you could get off, Miss Raby," she said. "Shall we go straight up and see the things before tea?"
"I was going home to tea," murmured Caroline, a little abashed, yet angry with herself for feeling so.
"You would not have time," said Laura, leading the way. "Please stay. I was expecting you for tea."
Then they were in the room: and Caroline drew a long breath when she saw the lovely garments spread forth on the bed and on the chairs and tables. They were so exquisite in stitchery and in the fineness of the material, that no girl who loved pretty things could look at them without enjoyment; therefore Caroline's "Oh, Miss Temple, I never, never saw anything so lovely!" was entirely natural and spontaneous.
Laura stood smiling and a little flushed in the midst of her dainty garments; and the room seemed at that moment to be full of a very charming atmosphere of girlish admiration and pleasure. One after another the filmy things were touched softly or held up to the light, while the two pairs of eyes—one pair deeply glowing and the other wide and bright—met over them in sympathetic appreciation.
"But this is the sweetest of all," said Laura happily. She was delighted to be giving pleasure, but—beneath that—she equally enjoyed indulging her desire to be liked by everybody. As she spoke she lifted from the bed where it lay a most exquisitely embroidered dressing-gown with a little cap to match.
"Yes, lovely," said Caroline. But the alteration in her tone was so marked and so sudden that Laura turned round quite sharply to see what the matter was: and in so doing she caught something clouded—sullen—what was it? just passing across the other girl's face. Why, of course—how dreadfully hard to see somebody else having all these beautiful things while you had nothing! Her sudden realization of this point of view was so complete that she flushed deeply from chin to forehead. What a perfect idiot she had been—when she only meant to be kind.
All the same she was now mistaken; that change in Caroline's expression being caused by something entirely different from what she imagined herself to have discovered; and she would have been both startled and surprised had she known the actual fact. As it was, her one desire was to somehow retrieve her mistake. She looked at her pretty things, trying eagerly to think of something that she could give without seeming to patronize, and her glance fell on a box of coloured handkerchiefs, so she took it up in her hand and said carelessly: "Oh! these don't belong here. A firm from whom I bought a great many things sent me them, and they are a kind I never use. Still I had to keep them. I wonder if you would take them with you out of the way?"
"Very kind—I'm sure. But you'll find a use for them," murmured Caroline, not extending her hand. The two girls looked away from each other, both a little discomfited; and in doing so they saw a photograph of Wilson in a silver frame which had been covered up and which the removal of the handkerchiefs had left exposed.
In that brief silence the atmosphere subtly changed, though neither exactly realized that it had done so.
"Well, I'm afraid I must be going now, Miss Temple," said Caroline. "Thank you very much indeed for letting me see your things." And she moved towards the door.
"You are forgetting your handkerchiefs," said Laura, pressing them into Caroline's hand. "Do have them, just to please me. But you must have a cup of tea before you go. It is all ready."
With that she led the way into the sitting-room, and Caroline lacked the social address to disentangle herself from the situation without being actually rude. She did not want to be that, therefore followed Laura, and as they went into the room Wilson rose from a seat by the window. But his heavy figure was silhouetted with a sort of hazy, golden outline against the strong afternoon light, and so she could not see his expression.
"Been viewing the marvels upstairs, Miss Raby?" he said easily, as she shook hands with Miss Panton. "Take this comfortable chair, won't you? It must be an exhausting job."
"No, have this; you'll find it much nicer," said Laura, laughing. But as they stood together, making much of Caroline, she saw that the chair Wilson had indicated was evidently one sacred to himself. The long, low seat, and the small table near containing cigarettes, ash-trays, pipes, and other conveniences, all pointed to the same care on the part of these two women.
Caroline sat down on the chair offered by Laura and crossed her feet with aggressive nonchalance because she was feeling nervous. "Anyway, this is a good deal different to mine on the prom.," she said, suddenly anxious to let Miss Panton clearly understand that she was the girl on the promenade, and not Miss Wilson's servant.
Miss Panton looked at her over the teacups and said: "Sugar? Bilk?" with the catarrh very much in evidence.
"I didn't tell you, Miss Raby, did I, that Miss Panton has given me a foot-muff for the car?" said Laura, speaking rather quickly, conscious of some odd constraint in the air. "We are going for a motor tour in the Lake District for our honeymoon. Every one says it is ideal in September. I have never been, oddly enough."
"Well, the glut of honeymooning couples in the Lakes is now a thing of the past," said Wilson, smiling at his future bride. "There was a time when a certain hotel at Windermere swarmed with them, I believe. Everybody looking out of their eye-corners at breakfast time to see if she knew how many lumps of sugar he took in his coffee."
Miss Panton murmured something about Wordsworth, obviously thinking that a more fitting topic to be discussed before a young person who was taking tea on sufferance with her betters.
"Perhaps Miss Raby is like me, and doesn't care much for Wordsworth," said Laura, looking across at her guest in a very friendly fashion. "I never got beyond 'We are seven,' and never wanted to."
"It's never too late to bend," retorted Miss Panton, still austere; her glance resting with deep disapproval upon the neatly stockinged leg which Caroline displayed.
"Come, Nanty," said Laura, laughing. "Don't be so superior. You know you don't really care for anything but a love-story with a happy ending yourself." She paused, looking round at them with her happy, brown eyes: "Well, there isn't anything better: is there?"
"Of course not," said Wilson, just touching Laura's shoulder as he passed her in handing the cake to Caroline. But as he did so his glance met Caroline's by chance, and he became instantly aware that she had been watching him, for she looked hastily away, while a colour which she could not control came into her cheeks, deepening and deepening until it almost brought tears to her eyes.
She sat near the window with the full light on her face, somehow oddly defenceless in her extreme embarrassment, and he could see the light powdering of freckles on her nose, as well as that curious, camellia-petal fineness of skin which always escaped notice until the observer came quite close, for there was a tinge of sallowness in the colour which prevented people from admiring it at first sight.
But a decent man who is to be married in a month does not, of course, indulge in speculations about another girl's complexion—at any rate, he does not encourage himself in doing so—and very soon Caroline removed temptation out of his way by rising and taking her leave.
As she said good-bye, the lovers stood in the doorway with the sunshine on their faces and the bright flowers seen through the far door behind them. She was glad to get away, her mind in a whirl of gratitude, defiance, curiosity and envy which bewildered herself. Of course, it was nice of Miss Temple to ask her to tea and treat her like any other girl friend, but anybody could be nice when they were getting everything in the whole world that they could want.… Her thoughts paused on that. Thatdidn'talways make people kind——
She started at the sound of the church clock and began to run, lest she should be late for the promenade.
But when she arrived her budget of news proved very disappointing to the expectant Lillie, who had lingered round the pay-box with her own tea waiting at home in the hope of hearing in more detail what every separate garment was like. But when she at length extracted the information that Wilson was also there, and that the party had taken afternoon tea together, her curiosity became intense.
"Did they look as if they were awfully gone on each other? I always thinks she seems sweet, and I think he ought to consider himself lucky, don't you? I say, fancy if you or I were in her place and going to be married next month? Feel funny, wouldn't it? But I shouldn't care much to be taking him on, should you? Too jolly cocksure for me."
"Chance is a bonny thing," said Caroline shortly. "I'll shut the door if you don't mind. There's a fearful draught blows through this place with it open."
The girl went round to the turnstile on her way out and addressed a last remark to Caroline through the little window. "You needn't be chippy with me because you haven't got twelve of everything all hand-embroidered. It isn't my fault!" she flung over her shoulder.
And having thus revenged herself for her colleague's uncommunicativeness, she went her way.
Caroline, left alone in her chair before the little window, automatically scanned the faces of those passing through the barrier, ready to release the clutch with a "Good evening" if the person were known to her, or to say in a dull monotone, "Six-pence, please," to a stranger. Every now and then she glanced at the darkening sky towards the North where clouds were gathering up, and after a while, single drops of rain began to fall. Very soon the empty promenade glittered black under a downpour, the lights making streaks of pale gold across it. People only came in now at infrequent intervals; a few dark figures hurried along the promenade; while the sound of the band in the covered hall drifted across through the open windows, mingling with the deep voice of a storm rising far out at sea.
After a while Wilf passed through, ostentatiously indifferent. "Oh, that you, Carrie? Good evening, I didn't see it was you at first. Beastly night, isn't it?" And he went on jauntily, sticking his hands in the pockets of his mackintosh.
Caroline watched him go with a most illogical sense of being deserted; then the turnstile clicked and she had to release the clutch, letting through a pleasant-looking mother with a daughter of about seventeen, both so happy in each other's company—making a lark of coming out together to hear the band on such a wet night. Caroline's unreasonable feeling of being alone and deserted deepened. For the first time in years, she consciously wanted her own mother—longed for her with an ache of the heart that almost brought tears. She seemed so alone. Aunt Creddle was goodness itself, but had her own family to think of first, of course, and could no longer take quite such a vivid interest in a niece as when her own children were quite little. Uncle Creddle had a steady kindness which nothing could change, but he too was a struggling man with a family. Besides, he was rather hard in some ways beneath his good-nature. She still remembered how he had spoken to her that evening when he found her screaming and playing about those empty houses with the boys.
No, she belonged nowhere: that was it. She did not think as the Creddles did about lots of things, and yet she did not belong to the world which girls like Miss Laura Temple lived in, either. She had got past one sort, and had not found another. All these thoughts passed confusedly through a mind that had been quickened by something incomprehensible in her experiences at Laura Temple's that afternoon. Through her thoughts she heard the hum of the sea, the tinkling fall of heavy rain on asphalt, the faint rising and falling of violin music.
She felt a sudden spirit of rebellion. Why shouldn't she have some fun? She would enjoy herself! She wasn't going to go on like this, letting people in to the promenade, doing housework, practising typewriting. Why did some girls get everything, like Laura Temple, and others nothing? It was not fair. It was not fair——
Then she saw Wilson at the little window. "Good evening. Stormy night!" he said, and passed through without any further remark.
She knew he had come straight from Laura's and was taking a short cut across the parade to his own lodgings, which were beyond the exit towards the north. He had come from no desire to see her. Still he might have spoken a word: he need not have gone through like that, as if it were only Lillie working the turnstile.
As she thought that, she felt a tear on her lips. Licking it off, she demanded furiously of herself how she could be such a fool as to cry about nothing. She must be run down. She must want a tonic.
Then she glanced up at the sound of a step approaching from the promenade, and there was Wilson's face, quite near, looking in at her little window. "You'll have a wet walk home, I'm afraid," he said.
"Yes." Her voice held a faint surprise, for he had already spoken once about the weather. "But I have an umbrella here."
"That's a good thing." He hesitated. "I might have lent you one, only it is rather large for a little girl," he added, speaking with a sort of artificial jocosity. "You must find that road rather dark and lonely on a night like this?" He paused again. "Don't you?"
For a moment or two she did not speak, and that silence somehow gave her answer an undue significance. "Yes," she said at last.
He opened his lips to speak, then suddenly his expression changed and he moved away from the window. "Wretched night! Wretched night!" he said, walking briskly on.
Caroline sat back in her chair, almost feeling as if she had been struck in the face—for a question had been asked and answered during that silence which involved all sorts of joys, fears, infidelities; then in a minute he banished them so utterly that she could scarcely believe they had ever been in question.
The next moment Mr. and Mrs. Graham were at the window. "Oh, dreadful night, is it not? You must feel the wind here."
Then they were merged into the shadow of the hall, warning each other as they went along against taking cold. Caroline saw what had happened now. Wilson had no doubt caught sight of the Grahams over his shoulder, and had not wished them to see him talking to her.
Very well!—she was in a flame from head to foot—very well! When hedidwant——
But beneath all that she sensed a weak longing for him which she was trying to drown in a flood of exaggerated indignation. Something told her that when he did want to speak to her again she would not be able to refuse: for he was not only a man for whom she felt a personal attraction, but he was also a type towards which all her new ambitions aspired. Poised as she now was, between what she had left and where she desired to be, he represented to her an ideal—assured, educated, a gentleman.
But though he did not walk home with her—in spite of what he said of the lonely road—she was not to go by herself after all. For a young man who was a connection of the Creddles—a railway porter by trade—chanced to pass just as she was leaving the promenade, and escorted her as far as the gate of the Cottage. He was a good-looking, intelligent youth, with a pleasant, hearty manner and a fair share of those solid qualities which adorned Mr. Creddle—the very man to make a good father and a good husband. Already attracted by Caroline, he would have gone further that night if he had not been discouraged, but she thought of his broken and blackened finger-nails, and of the noise he made when he drank tea, and so they parted at the gate without anything definite being said.
But as she ran up the garden path with her self-esteem thus agreeably restored, she had not the faintest idea that she had just passed by that rarest thing in life—a chance of real happiness.
The long street leading to the church was thronged with people who walked slowly, smiling and talking to each other, either going towards the lanes beyond the little town, or towards the sea. But a third sort, much smaller in number, threaded rather quickly in and out of the gently-moving crowds with an air of obeying some purpose within themselves and not merely enjoying the lull in the wind at sundown and the warm air. And above it all, clanging out from the grey tower, the last bell rang out a single note urgently: "Come! Come! Come!"
A good many did not notice the bell at all; others just took it in as a sound of Sunday evening which ministered pleasantly to their agreeable feeling of having nothing to do but enjoy themselves; scarcely anyone was troubled by declining that invitation, because the habit of church-going has fallen from the position of a duty to that of a compliment which the religiously disposed are willing to pay their God if quite convenient.
Caroline walked briskly, now and then glancing up at the clock on the tower as if she belonged to the purposeful minority which was making its way to the grey porch. Not that she had started out with any intention of going to the service, but her girl friend had come across an admirer at the church corner, and so it became necessary to do something in self-defence. Impossible to contemplate wandering alone on a Sunday evening without a companion of any sort. The lack of a "boy" for such a purpose made Caroline feel oddly self-conscious—as if people were staring at her and wondering. She would have been glad of the young railway porter's company now, if he had turned up, and would have welcomed him as a sort of refuge.
He sat and smoked on a bench by the sea front, however, all unaware of the opportunity that was rushing past him, never to return. At the last insistent "Come!" Caroline caught sight of Lillie with a young man rounding the next bend of the road, and the idea of being pitied for her solitary condition made her march straight up the flagged path to the church door, as if she had meant going ever since leaving home.
But once inside the church, she experienced a gradual cessation of that prickling awareness of other people's thoughts and other people's eyes which had been so uncomfortable on the road. For she was familiar with the service—having gone to the Sunday school in childhood and attended church at times since, though the Creddles were chapel folk—so that the places in the Prayer Book came automatically to her fingers, and the soothing flow of the words gave her a chance to come to herself. She did not worship in any real sense of the word, but her mind was, despite itself, attuned to peace. "From all the perils and dangers of this night——" Then, after an interval during which the sunset struck golden across a tomb in the chancel: "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ … now and for evermore. Amen."
She rose from her knees and her glance fell upon Miss Ethel, who sat a fair distance away in the sparsely filled side aisle. She wondered whether Miss Ethel were a really religious sort or not—you never heard her mention a word about it, and she seemed so up against everything——
Then the hymn—old-fashioned because the Vicar was away and the elderly organist who had chosen it liked that kind best. Perhaps he knew that all religion must at the last be a matter of feeling and not of reason, for he had lived such a long time in the world and really loved God. But the strange preacher who was going to occupy the pulpit looked down the church at the congregation singing and felt they required a great deal of sound teaching. So, being a good man with a high ethical standard, he stepped up into the pulpit and did his best during the opportunity which was at his disposal to correct the effect of what he considered sentimental doggerel.
But as Caroline listened to him, she felt his explanations of a reasonable faith washing away from her mind all the beautiful pictures which had been stored there and had formed part of her life, though she had not valued them. No doubt he meant well; still the explanations took away and gave nothing to fill the empty place. Soon her mind wandered and she caught sight of a hat trimmed in a way that was exceedingly smart and easy enough to copy; so that occupied her attention until she heard the familiar rustle among the congregation and the "Now" which gives release.
The clergyman stood near the east window to give the blessing with a side light slanting across his white surplice, and a thought darted into Caroline's mind, turning her hot from head to foot—Why, that was just how the Vicar would stand with the bride and bridegroom before him at the altar-rails in three weeks' time! And a vision of Laura in her veil beside Wilson's broad, strong figure gave her a queer, unhappy feeling of irritation and pain; yet somehow she wanted to indulge the pain—to press it in upon her senses by dwelling on it.
Then her healthier instincts suddenly revolted. "It's nothing to me. I aren't jealous of another girl getting married! I could be married myself to-morrow if that's all." But deep within her she felt it was not all; so rising abruptly she went out, not looking again at the chancel.
Miss Ethel came forth more deliberately, nodding to one here and there among the townspeople as she passed under the porch into the cool evening, but her salutations were not acknowledged with the appearance of gratification or respect which she had seen accorded to her parents years ago—young people from shops and post-offices nodded off-handedly back, or at most gave a somewhat condescending "Good evening, Miss Wilson," feeling in their confident youth and independence that it was they who had done her the favour.
It was all so different; that constant burden of her thoughts—— And as she walked home through the end of the sunset, the forlorn restlessness of the cat turned out of its basket and forced to wander in cold, strange places seized upon her again. She could not formulate her unease excepting by that one phrase: it was all so different.
When she reached home, Mrs. Bradford looked up with a sort of solid expectancy: "Well, did you have a good sermon?"
"I suppose so. The Vicar was not there. The man we had explained to us that there was no heaven and no God, so I suppose he was very clever."
Mrs. Bradford stared, then relaxed comfortably into her cushions once more. "Oh, you mean he held those new views about religion," she said. "I have just been reading a novel that has something about that in it. Was he young? I always like a young preacher, because their voices are generally stronger and you can hear better."
Miss Ethel had gone to the window and now stood there, looking out. The eyebrow which was affected a little by emotion or excitement gave a slight twitch occasionally and her lips were pressed close together. She saw the little flag on the roof over the privet hedge hanging quiet on the still air, and it added to her sense of being conquered by those forces which had been creeping on steadily, bit by bit, until she could not ignore them any more than the new houses.
But she had never before felt it as she did to-night, looking up at that exquisite clear sky with the sickle moon rising. She was not well, tired with the walk and the service; and a most unwonted pressure of tears ached behind her eyes, though she fiercely fought against them.
"Ethel!" said Mrs. Bradford. "What are you standing there for? Why don't you go and take off your things for supper?"
"I am going." Miss Ethel controlled her voice to speak as usual. "I'll just put the kettle on first, because Caroline won't be in for some time yet." And she began to cross the room, when suddenly, abruptly, she stopped short. Standing quite still in the midst of all those heavy chairs and tables that gleamed dimly in the falling dusk, she blurted out in a queer, strangled tone: "I hated that sermon. I don't think clergymen ought to be allowed to preach like that. They want to change God. They can't even leave God the same."
"You really do upset yourself about things so, Ethel," said Mrs. Bradford fretfully. She wanted her supper. "What does it matter to you what other people think? You should just take no notice and go on in your own way, and believe what you always have believed—as I do."
Miss Ethel made some inarticulate reply, and went out to put on the kettle. Not for any earthly consideration would she have told her sister that that was exactly what she could not do: that because she listened carefully to sermons and read articles about religion the unchanging God was gradually giving place to a vague Power which nebulously adapted itself to the needs of a changing civilization.
The gas-ring spurted under the match in her hand, lighting up with a bluish light her pale, thin face. Her lips moved as she murmured to herself for comfort: "Thesameyesterday, to-day and for ever." But she could not find anything to hold on to in that any more.
Then she heard an unexpected sound at the door, and the next minute Caroline came in, drawing off her gloves.
"I'll see to the hot water, Miss Ethel," she said.
"You are in early to-night," said Miss Ethel.
"Yes." Caroline paused. "Oh, I have been going to tell you that I shall——" But with the words nearly over her lips, she found herself unable to speak them. "Shall be late in to-morrow," she substituted; for somehow she could not after all cut herself adrift from this house yet, though she came fresh from a conversation which had left her burning with annoyance.
She tingled still at the recollection of one girl saying to another in passing: "That's Caroline Raby! What's she doing? Oh, she's in service." And at the memory of her own sharply-flung: "I'm not in service, then! I take tickets on the promenade and I'm going into an office after that."
But though it was evident that she was regarded by some as being in service, and though she felt no higher regard for it than anyone else who has just emerged from women's oldest and grandest profession, she could not bring herself to break the threads which held her to these two women—and to something beyond them which she would not realize. But after she was in bed, she could see in the darkness the church window in the sunset, and the altar rails, and the clergyman standing as he would do when Wilson and Laura were married.
So the three women lay in bed, thinking their own thoughts, with the sea moaning—moaning—as it broke in a long even wave and withdrew on the soft sand; quite a different sound every day, though Miss Ethel had heard it for fifty-six years. But she was scarcely conscious of hearing it at all, though it had formed an accompaniment to every thought and action of her life during all those years.
But to-night—perhaps because it was so warm and still, and she had the window facing the sea wide open—she did really listen to the waves; and that sound might perhaps have comforted her, with its deep note of unhasting permanence, if the ears of her mind had also been open to hear. But she only felt its melancholy. It seemed to accentuate her forlorn sense of having nothing stationary to hold on to, not even an unchanging God.
The Thorhaven season had passed its height, and that August month, towards which all the efforts of the lodging-house keepers and tradespeople converged during the year, was nearly at an end, while on every fence and wall employed for bill sticking could be read in large letters: "A Great Gala Night will take place on Thursday, August the twenty-ninth. Splendid Illuminations. Continental Attractions. Dancing on the Green from eight to ten-thirty."
The term Continental Attractions was the inspiration of Mr. Graham, who had recently visited the South of France on account of his wife's health—at least he gave that as his reason, though Mrs. Graham told all her friends confidentially that she would never have incurred so much trouble and expense if her husband had not shown symptoms of incipient bronchitis—and she equally believed herself to be speaking the truth. Anyway, there it was; and from the visit to Cannes resulted this idea of imparting ajoie de vivreto the Thorhaven Gala by means of paper streamers and air balloons. There had been some consideration of squeakers and false noses; but one or two members of the Promenade Sub-Committee raised the reasonable objection that the squeakers would interfere with the band, while the false noses—— Well, there was something indefinably loose about false noses which they could feel but could not describe in words. At any rate, they were not going to allow such things on their promenade.
There was a good deal of talk concerning the Gala in the town; so that those inhabitants who were familiar with illustrated magazines and the lighter drama—and also possessed a sanguine temperament—no doubt went about picturing to themselves a still night with coloured lanterns hanging motionless against a deep blue sky, while a crowd of exuberant visitors disported themselves in pale garments and unusual attitudes for the amusement of the Thorhaven people.
But the clerk of the weather was not going to have anything so incongruous as all that, and the 29th rose cold and grey—one of those summer days which are a premonition of autumn. A strongish wind blew from the west; leaves came whirling down on the road leading to the promenade, and the sky was grey-black with clouds scudding across; while beneath it, a rising sea showed a line of white breakers in the gloom—like the cruel teeth of a monster seeking something to devour.
Still the evening came with no sign of rain; the band stationed at the edge of the green played cheerful dances with a will, and it was no fault of theirs that the music sounded so lost and futile amid the roaring of the sea—rather as if a penny whistle were to be played in a cathedral while the organ was booming out solemn music among the springing arches. Perhaps the visitors and the Thorhaven people felt something of this themselves, for they put no real zest into their attempts at carnival, but they danced rather grimly in the cold wind, with little tussocks in the grass catching their toes and the fairy lamps which edged the lawn blowing out one after the other.
At the windiest corner, near the hall, was planted the respectable middle-aged woman who sometimes assisted in cleaning the church—though she was herself an ardent Primitive—and in her arms she held a struggling mass of air balloons which seemed most anxious to escape over the North Sea to those parts of Europe where carnival is more at home. But no one seemed to be buying from her excepting a few children, whose needs were soon satisfied. Then a worn-looking young man came up and purchased two balloons for his children at home, but after that the woman stood there alone again, with the balloons buffeting about her head.
At another point farther down the promenade, a boy suffering from a slight cold in his head offered for sale a tray of those snake-like paper missiles which can be shot out suddenly with startling effect. But he seemed rather ashamed of his job and kept in the gloom as much as possible, now and then making a sale among the children, who ran in and out behind the more sheltered seats where their elders sat in winter coats.
Mr. Graham—as the originator of these attractions—felt exceedingly impatient, both with his fellow-townspeople and the visitors, as he sat watching. A chill air blew down the back of his neck and he was conscious of an incipient cold, which all added to his feeling of bitterness. "No earthly use trying!" he burst forth, rising abruptly from his seat. "English people don't know how to enjoy themselves, and it's no use trying to teach them."
He scowled first at the scene before him and then at his wife, who sat with Mrs. Bradford and Miss Ethel on a long wooden seat.
"You couldn't imagine the weather would be like this, dear," said Mrs. Graham soothingly.
"The air will do us good," added Miss Ethel, a little pink about the nose, but wishful to be polite.
"Well, there's plenty of it," he said bitterly, grabbing his hat, which threatened to blow away.
It was plain that he jested with an anxious heart, thinking of what might be said of his venture at the next Council meeting. Those very offensive fellows who always were against him would, of course, make capital out of this.… Suddenly he braced himself up and strode away across the lawn. Theyshouldfrisk, if any influence of his could make 'em!
His wife looked after him sympathetically, then turned to Miss Ethel. "That's right!" she said. "Arthur will soon put a little more spirit into them. You see he knows how it is done. I shall never forget the way he entered into the spirit of the thing that time when we were abroad. If you could have seen him going down the Plage with a sort of a rattle in his hand and his hat on one side—— But there's something in the climate, of course."
"I suppose there must be," said Miss Ethel, with an involuntary glance at the couples jigging solemnly about the grass in front of her.
They sat silent for a time, feeling colder and colder, but sparing Mrs. Graham's feeling by remaining where they were. "Isn't that Caroline?" said Mrs. Bradford, after a long pause.
"I dare say. She told me the arrangements were somewhat different this evening, and she was to come off duty at half-past nine," said Miss Ethel.
Then Mr. Graham came back and bumped himself down so heavily on the wooden seat that the ladies felt a slight jar.
"No life!" he exclaimed. "No gaiety! Nojoie de vivre!" He paused, blowing his nose. "Well, this is the last time. I'll never attempt anything of the sort again."
"You must not say that. I am sure the Thorhaven people are grateful," murmured Miss Ethel.
"Old fool!" blurted out Mr. Graham with alarming ferocity and suddenness. "A woman like that ought to be kept indoors when other people are enjoying themselves, and only taken out in a churchyard on a chain. Fit for nothing else!"
"Arthur! What are you talking about?" said his wife, naturally startled.
"Well," he said, then had to swallow and choke. "Well, I bought one of those paper snakes just to encourage the lad and set things going a bit. Then I let it run out as I passed a dull-looking group that seemed not to be enjoying themselves. And—and——"
"Well, Arthur?"
"A wretched woman turned round and called me an impudent old scoundrel—told me she didn't want any grey-haired married men after her girls."
"I don't believe it! I can't! She meant somebody else. Don't you feel sure she must have meant her remark for some other passer-by, Mrs. Bradford?" said Mrs. Graham, much agitated by his annoyance.
Mrs. Bradford eyed Mr. Graham with stolid thoroughness. "I think she must. He doesn't look at all like that. But my husband used to say that the sedate middle-aged-looking ones were often the worst, so perhaps she may have thought the same."
"If she did, she was an idiot," said Mrs. Graham; then abruptly changed the subject. "Oh, there's Godfrey Wilson! I suppose he often comes through here on his way to his rooms."
"Yes, that's it. No fear of his wanting to dance with the girls on the promenade nowadays," answered Mr. Graham, beginning to recover himself by degrees. "Well, Lizzie, I think we've had enough of this, don't you? Shall we go in and have a bit of supper? Then I will see Mrs. Bradford and Miss Ethel home."
But as they walked away, he could not refrain from casting a backward glance at the decent woman struggling with her unruly air-balloons, and a sense of disappointedjoie de vivrecame over him once more. "I wish to goodness the whole bag o' tricks would blow away into the sea," he said. "I'd willingly pay the piper. I'm sick to death of seeing the things bob up and down in the wind."
"Are you?" said Miss Ethel in her sharp way. "Then why don't you buy them all up and send them to the children at the Convalescent Home that Laura is so interested in?"
"Now that's an idea," said Mr. Graham at once. For the feeling that it was his duty to give to a charitable institution when he could, had been handed down to him—it was a part of life, no less natural than having his hair cut or going to the dentist's. Out in the new, changed world this instinctive generosity might already be taking flight—scared away, as the fairies had been by steam traffic—but in Thorhaven it still remained.
So he went back to the woman selling air-balloons with restored self-satisfaction, and stood there in the high wind, diving into his pockets for the amount required. The air balloons blew about—purple, pink and white—all looking almost equally colourless by the faint light as they bobbed about the woman's head, impeding her view of the purchaser. A few moments later she was making her way home, thankful to be done with a job which seemed to her ridiculous.