Ruth had had one lovely day, marred, it is true, by Ethel's outburst,
but mended, afterwards, by the talk of those voyages she was to make
with Hannah, and on the next day, Wilfrid had a surprise for her.
Hannah was informed of it in a paraphrase designed to protect her in
case of trouble and, at the mid-day meal, Wilfrid mentioned, in an
off-handed manner, that he and Ruth were having a little excursion
that afternoon. In answer to questions, he was prepared to say that
they meant to examine some of Radstowe's public buildings, but, in the
absence of Howard, Robert Corder made a practice of ignoring Wilfrid's
remarks when he could not find fault with them, and he said nothing,
and Ethel's concern with her own affairs deadened her to those of
others.
The changeable nature of Robert Corder's views made these precautions
necessary. He had never been in a theatre in his life. He had been
trained to a distrust of everything connected with the stage and
though his mind had broadened with the times and the opinions of
eminent fellow-ministers, he had remained aloof. Thus he was spared
the awkwardness of deciding what plays were fit for him to see and the
danger of making unfortunate mistakes. Ethel also remained aloof, for
the sake of her girls who might be misled in those questionable haunts,
and pastoral plays in the Zoological Gardens were all she and Ruth had
seen. The Spenser-Smiths always went to the Radstowe pantomime, and
if Ruth had been invited to accompany them, no doubt her father would
have let her go, but it was a different matter when Wilfrid carried his
young cousin off, and she had all the excitement of this longed for
experience, yoked to the difficulty of wearing her velveteen frock, in
honour of Wilfrid and the dress circle, and getting out of the house
before Ethel could see the significant finery under her concealing coat.
This was safely accomplished while Ethel was noisily closeted in her
bedroom, and Hannah hoped she was dressing for some pleasure of her
own. She felt incapable of dealing with more of those mad interviews
in which the accused was consulted about the prosecution. Her mind was
dull with a weariness demanding solitude and, when Ethel had looked in
to say she would be out to tea, Hannah told Doris she had a headache
and was not to be disturbed, and she went upstairs slowly, feeling old
and strangely deserted, now that she had her wish of being alone.
She had not long for the indulgence of this rare self-pity. She fell
into that day-time sleep which, for the exhausted, can be profounder
than any that comes at night, and she sank into it as though she
floated on subsiding water, without consciousness of the drop, and,
accompanying the descent, there was the promise of an oblivion which
came upon her before she had had her fill of waiting for it.
Out of this timelessness, this absolute ease from care, she woke with
a thumping heart, and with an effort, like a physical wrench, to
remember where she was. Darkness had filled her bedroom, the noise she
had heard, on the point of waking, as that of horses thundering up the
stairs, resolved itself into heavy, hurried footsteps, and her door
was flung open to the sound of Ethel's voice calling for Miss Mole.
A fire in the house, or in the theatre, Ruth run over, an accident
to Mr. Corder or Mr. Pilgrim, were possibilities rushing to Hannah's
mind as she put her feet to the floor and felt Ethel's presence in the
room, and before she could light the gas, she heard Ethel saying in
breathless catastrophic tones, 'I've been to see Mrs. Spenser-Smith!'
The match-box slipped from Hannah's fingers and while she fumbled for
it, her legs aching sharply with her fright, she muttered angrily, 'I
thought some one was dead, at least.'
'It's worse!' Ethel cried shrilly.
Hannah lit the gas and, looking at Ethel, she thought she saw what
Mr. Blenkinsop had seen ten days ago, for strong emotions have faces
of their own, and those which had command of Ethel had blotted out
the individuality of her features and she might as easily have been
taken for Hannah Mole or any other woman in distress, as for Ethel
Corder, the competent leader of the Girls' Club. It was no wonder
Mr. Blenkinsop had prowled up and down the street, when he had the
memory of such a face; it was no wonder he had not risked further
communication with a woman who could look like that, but Hannah
had responsibilities towards Ethel which were not Mr. Blenkinsop's
towards her, and whereas she had been incapable of speech, Ethel's was
torrential under the encouragement she received.
She had been to see Mrs. Spenser-Smith in search of comfort and advice.
Who else was there she could go to? She had no mother, her father
was angry and Miss Mole, to whom she told this story, was the cause
of half the trouble, but Mrs. Spenser-Smith who ought to have been
consoling and maternal had shattered what happiness Ethel had.
'She was cruel to me, Miss Mole,' Ethel said, with tears streaming down
her face. 'So cold and haughty. She said Father was quite right; she
didn't like Mr. Pilgrim herself. She said--But it can't be true! If
it's true, I shall die!'
'No, you won't die,' Hannah said soothingly.
'But I shall want to!'
'I'm afraid that won't make any practical difference. Men have died and
worms have eaten them, but not for love.'
'Oh, Miss Mole, what do you know about it?' Ethel cried. 'And it
wouldn't be dying of love. It would be dying of--of shame! For having
loved him.'
'You won't even die of that,' Hannah said, very low.
'It isn't that I care what he's done. I could forgive anything--only
not lies, not lies! I couldn't love anyone who told me lies.'
'Then you'll have a remarkably narrow choice,' Hannah said drily. 'But,
it seems to me, the important question is whether he loves you.'
'But of course he does!' The flow of Ethel's tears stopped and went on
again.
'Has he said so? In so many words? Was it what they used to call a
declaration? Unmistakably?'
'Yes,' Ethel said, dropping her head. 'He told me yesterday--but I knew
before that.'
'Then why in the world were you crying last night when Ruth and I came
in? You ought to have been jumping for joy, girl!'
'But Father came and said awful things about him, and Mrs.
Spenser-Smith says he isn't a good man. She says he's telling tales
about you because he's afraid you'll tell them about him. She says you
know something against him. You don't, do you, Miss Mole? You said
you'd never seen him till the Spenser-Smiths' party--he told me so, but
who am I to believe?'
Hannah sat on her bed, looking at her folded hands and for a few
minutes she was more occupied with thoughts of Lilla than of Ethel or
herself. 'So you told Mrs. Spenser-Smith what you had heard about me,
did you?'
'Yes. I didn't mean to, but it came out.'
'It would!' Hannah said, and she smiled as she pictured Lilla's horror,
her immediate belief in her cousin's guilt, and her equal quickness
in protecting her own reputation by using the hint Hannah had dropped
about Mr. Pilgrim's little secrets.
'And oh, Miss Mole, don't tell me lies to comfort me,' Ethel begged.
Hannah had already made her decision, but these courageous words
ennobled the task she had set herself and though she doubted Mr.
Pilgrim's worthiness of the girl who had uttered them, she would not
allow the doubt to influence her. 'You can go on loving him,' she
said. 'He hasn't told you any lies, not about me, anyhow, and I don't
suppose he has ever committed what he would call a sin. That's what's
the matter with him. You see, he's got a grudge against me. I shut my
door in his face once, and I'd do it again, and, worse still, I believe
I laughed at him. He can't forgive that, and then, if he loves you,
he has an interest in looking after you and trying to get rid of me.
He wouldn't like me to do you harm. I don't blame him. I don't blame
anybody. What's the use?'
'Then wasn't there a cousin Hilda?' Ethel asked timidly, making sure of
Mr. Pilgrim's perfections before she gave way to her joy.
'Not in the flesh,' Hannah said, 'but in every other way, there was,
and now she has vanished and her works follow her. The evil that men
do--' Her words slipped into silence and after a moment she added, very
softly, to herself, 'But it was not evil.'
She was not looking at Ethel, but she could feel her fascinated stare
at this new species, at a woman who seemed good, who had never failed
to give help when it was wanted, and yet confessed to wickedness,
without apology or excuse.
'I shall have to tell Father,' Ethel said with difficulty.
Hannah raised her head sharply. 'I don't see the necessity,' she
said, and she thought of Ruth, laughing at the pantomime and proud of
Wilfrid's company.
'But don't you see, I must. It's only fair to Mr. Pilgrim, and to me.
Mrs. Spenser-Smith will be saying things about him. Why, it might ruin
him!'
'Then tell him,' Hannah said wearily.
'I'm sorry, Miss Mole, I really am. It seems mean, I know, and I've
always liked you, but you see, don't you?'
What Hannah saw most clearly was her own shabby, homeless figure,
and it amazed her that Ethel did not see it too, but she said, 'Yes,
yes, I see it all. Don't tell him until Ruth's in bed. And don't tell
her at all. I'll send her to bed early, and I'll go out. It would be
uncomfortable for you, wouldn't it, to know I was in the next room?
Wouldn't it?' she persisted.
'Oh, yes, Miss Mole, it would. You think of everything, and I'll do my
best. I'll ask Father to forgive you and, you've been so good to us,
I'm sure he will.'
'Well, leave me now,' Hannah said.
She counted her money. She would not stay to be blessed by Mr. Corder's
forgiveness. She would go to-morrow. She had no intention of going
without giving Robert Corder an opportunity to repeat his generosity
and herself the unlikely pleasure of refusing it. She had made her
choice. She had sacrificed Ruth to Ethel's chance of happiness, but
she could not sacrifice all her dignity to Ruth, who had her Uncle
Jim to care for her, and to Uncle Jim, Hannah wrote, before she went
downstairs, and, turning to look at the little ship which had been her
companion for so long, she decided that Ruth should have it in exchange
for Hannah Mole.
Years seemed to pass over her head while she waited for Ruth and
Wilfrid to come in, and while she listened to all they had to tell
her. The evening meal, strained by Robert Corder's general disgust
with uncalled for circumstances, Ethel's nervous excitement and Ruth's
carefulness to let fall no revealing word, seemed everlasting, and
then there was the night-light to be lit for the last time, and there
were more of Ruth's confidences to hear, before Hannah could leave the
house, bare-headed and wearing her old ulster.
She hesitated at Mr. Samson's gate, but she did not open it. She was
afraid she would cry if anyone spoke kindly to her, and more afraid
that the signs of this weakness were on her face. And why was she so
miserable? She had foreseen all this and been prepared to meet it
without a murmur. Was it because she was leaving Ruth, because her
secret was being discussed in the study, or because she had no money
and no home? It was because of all of these, but they were only part
of her distress, for she could no longer trust that spring of hope
which, hitherto, had always flowed for her, sometimes feebly, more
often with iridescent bubbles which might break as she put her lips to
them and change their shape, but kept a quality that refreshed her. The
spring had run dry and, as though she went in search of another, she
hurried up the street in a drizzling rain and followed the route she
and Mr. Blenkinsop had taken when they had walked together at night and
found nothing to say to one another. It was strange to remember that
she would have been as happy, then, without him, and now, with each
step she took, her desire to speak to him increased, not to tell him
anything, just to speak to him, before she went away.
She went round the hill with no regard for the cliffs and the dark
river and the sparkling docks she loved so well. She knew they were
there and, in a way, they comforted her, but she did not look at them.
She hurried down the sloping ground, across The Green and across
Albert Square, and she did not slacken her pace until she reached Mrs.
Gibson's door. The door was open, and Mr. Blenkinsop, in his coat and
hat, was turning to shut it for the night.