The hour of twelve was tolling out across the water from the little
church on Kew Green, when Sally fitted her borrowed latch-key into
the door. She had performed the journey back to Kew Bridge in a stupor
of mind that could hold no single thought, review no single event
with any clearness of vision. It was as if not one evening, but three
days, had passed by since she had left the office of Bonsfield &
CO.--the day they had dined together--the day on which they had
watched that terrible fight--the day, the last of all, when she had
awakened from unconsciousness, had struggled through a cruel agony
of mind, and had finally said good-bye to him for ever. How was it
possible, with the length, breadth and depth of three days all
crushed into the microscopic space of five hours--a dizzy whirling
acceleration of time--how was it possible for her to think logically,
consecutively, to even think at all? She could not think. She had
lain back in the carriage, her head lax against the cushions, and
simply permitted the whole procession of events, like some
retreating army with death at its heels, to stagger across her brain.
Down the old river-path to the Hewsons' house, she had walked as if
asleep, the glazed eyes of the somnambulist, staring in front, but
seeing nothing. Up to her bedroom she had climbed with but one thought
in her mind, the fear of waking any one. She had struck a match outside
the door, lest the scratching of it in the room should rouse Janet.
Such considerations as these her mind could grasp. It needed a night
of sleep to nurse her comprehension back to all that she had been
through. As yet, she was unable to realize it.
One by one, she took off her clothes, in the same mechanical way as
she would have done if she had returned exhausted from working
overtime at the office. When she put on her night-dress, she knelt
down unpremeditatedly upon the floor, held her hands together, and
looked up to the ceiling, watching a fly that was braving the cold
of winter, as it crept in a sluggish, hibernated way across the white
plaster. When she rose to her feet and blew out the candle, she was
under the vague impression that she had said her prayers. Then she
climbed into bed, pulled the clothes about her, and, as her hand
touched the pillow, its softness, the remembrance of the many nights
when in loneliness she had wept herself to sleep, all rushed back
with their thousand associations, and the dam against her soul broke.
The flood of tears poured through, and she sobbed convulsively.
Suddenly then, with a grasp of the breath, she stopped, though the
tears still toppled down. She had heard her name.
"Sally--"
It was Janet. Before she could resist, before she could explain, two
thin arms were clasped round her breast and a close, warm body was
next to hers.
"What is it, Sally--little Sally? tell Janet--tell
Janet--whisper--"
The passionate sobbing, which had begun again immediately Sally knew
it was Janet, commenced now to break into uneven, uncontrolled
breaths, that by degrees became quieter and quieter as Janet
whispered the fond, meaningless things into her ear. Meaningless?
They would have had no meaning to any who might have overheard; but
in Sally's heart, as it was meant they should be, they were charged
to the full--a cup beneath an ever-flowing fountain that brims
over--with such kindness and sympathy, as only a woman of Janet's
nature knows how to bestow to another and more gentle of her sex.
"Are you unhappy, Sally?" she asked, when, from the sounds of her
weeping, she had become more rational.
There was no answer.
"Are you, Sally?"
"Yes, frightfully--frightfully! Oh, I wish I hadn't got to go on."
It was rent from her heart, torn from her. All the spirit in her was
broken--crushed.
"But why, my darling? Why?" The thin arms held her tighter, warm lips
kissed her neck and shoulders. "Did he treat you badly--did he?"
"No!"
Janet gleaned much in the directness of that answer.
"Doesn't he care for you?"
She knew then that Sally cared for him.
"I don't know. How could I know?"
"He hasn't told you so, one way or the other?"
"No."
"But you think he doesn't?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Then what makes you so frightfully unhappy?"
"Because I'm never going to see him again."
The words were thick, choked almost in her throat.
"Oh, then he doesn't care," said Janet, softly.
"Yes, he does!" retorted Sally, wildly. "He does care, only--only--"
"Only what?"
"Only, he thinks too little of himself and--and too much of me. He
says he's not the sort of man I ought to have anything to do with"--the
words were rushing from her now--the torrent of earth that a landslip
sets free. "He never wants to marry, he hates the conventionalities
and the bonds of marriage like you say you do. And he asked me to
forgive him for thinking I was different--different--to what he had
expected. He said he ought never to have spoken to me in the first
instance, and that it was his fault, and he blamed himself entirely
for what had happened. Then he took me downstairs and put me in a
hansom and said good-bye. And--I'm not to see him--any more."
It was a pitiable little story, pitiably told; punctuated with tears
and choking breaths, with no heed for effect, nor attempt to make
it dramatic or sadder than it already was.
When she had finished, she lay there, crying quietly in Janet's arms,
all courage gone, all vitality sapped from her.
For a long time Janet waited, thinking it all through. Then she
whispered in Sally's ears.
"And you love him, Sally?"
The heavy sigh, so deep drawn that it seemed to strain down to her
heart--that was answer enough. What further answer need she give?
Sighs, tears, the catch in the breath, the look in the eyes, the look
from the eyes--those are the language in which a woman really speaks.
Words, she uses to hide them.