AT the risk of offending a stray customer Kitty delayed opening the
post-office until her outraged spirit had become a little calmer—only a
little, for the mingled passions so brutally aroused would subside only
through sheer exhaustion. She had no one to confide in, no one to count
on for sympathy and comfort. She had thought she had grown used to being
alone in the world, but she had never experienced loneliness like this.
Her bosom heaved, but her eyes remained dry.
The sounds of her aunt opening the shop next door roused her from a sort
of stupor. Taking the big key, she proceeded to open the office for the
day’s business. There was some book-keeping to be done, also a schedule
or two to fill up, but her hand shook so that she could scarcely write.
And suddenly she realized that she was afraid, desperately afraid. She
was so wholly dependent on that man next door; her very existence was in
his hands; she was, to all intents and purposes, his prisoner.
A few pounds would have made all the difference now. She possessed less
than two shillings. There was no escape.
She unlocked the safe, and transferred part of its contents, money,
stamps, and so forth, to their proper drawers. The money gave her a
sickish feeling; so much of it—the price of her salvation over and over
again—her freedom in a fraction of it. . . . Violently she shut the
drawer and turned to the desk.
A child came in with a letter and a penny, and, a little later, a woman
with a parcel. Then there was a longish blank till an elderly man
entered. He made a brief remark on the weather and proceeded to fill up
a money order request-form. Presently he pushed it across the counter
along with the money, £27, in three five-pound and twelve one-pound
notes, also an eightpence to pay the charge. Laying the money on the
desk, she collected her wits and carefully wrote out the order. Her
sleeve brushed the notes separate without her noticing.
The man wanted to know when a letter would be delivered in a certain
outlying place in Ireland, and she took the “Post-office guide” to the
counter and found him the information contained therein. He went out,
leaving the door open. The brisk current of morning air was welcome.
Before she could turn from the counter a girl came in with a few
shillings for her savings account. . . .
When the girl had gone Kitty put her hands to her head, which was now
throbbing painfully. Some little time elapsed before she returned to the
desk. Observing the notes, she gathered them up and placed them in the
proper drawer for money order and postal order transactions. She locked
the drawer with a key on the bunch hanging from her belt. Often this
drawer contained fairly large sums. Once more she attacked her clerical
work.
Somehow the morning passed. At noon she was relieved for half an hour,
by her uncle. He peered about, but made no remark, and without even
glancing at him she passed through the short passage leading to the shop
and thence to the cottage. Her dinner was waiting on the table. Miss
Corrie, who had put it there, had gone back to the shop; she dined with
her brother later.
Kitty could not eat. After a while she went up to her room and lay down
for ten minutes. The pity was that she did not spend the whole of her
half-hour upstairs.
The first thing Corrie did on being left to himself, was to snatch from
the floor, under the shadow of the desk, a five-pound note. Holding it
stretched between his hands, he stood transfixed, while the clock ticked
nearly a hundred seconds. Then his hands began to shake and sweat
appeared on his face. . . . Two minutes later he left the office to take
care of itself, going out by the public way. Keeping close to the wall
he passed round behind the office and shop and into the yard at the back
of the house. The place was not overlooked by neighbours, but he glanced
keenly about him before he turned his gaze upwards. Above the ivy an
attic window was wide open.
He tiptoed to an out-house; he tiptoed back with a ladder. He placed the
ladder in position and climbed a few bars, halted, and made a show of
doing something to the ivy. Ascending further, he repeated the
performance. At last he was at the window. For a few seconds he
remained with his body bent and stretched into the room, then he
withdrew, descended the ladder, replaced it in the out-house, and
returned to the office.
At 12.30 his niece appeared. He moved towards the shop, seemed to change
his mind, and came back. He cleared his throat, and said—
“I’ll check the cash.”
Hitherto the formality had always taken place after business hours, but
the girl, too sick at heart to be surprised at anything, without
hesitation or remark handed him her keys.
Before long Miss Corrie called him to dinner.
“It’ll ha’ to wait,” he returned, apparently immersed in his task.
At the end of twenty minutes he spoke.
“Here!”
She came over. “Anything wrong?” she asked wearily.
He pointed to the open drawer. “Ye’re short!”
“Nonsense! Twenty-seven pounds—that’s been the only money order business
to-day.”
“Well, there’s only twenty-two.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” she said, with reviving alertness. “Three fives
and twelve singles.”
“Was that how Torrance gave ye the money? Be very sure now!—Three fives
and twelve singles? Eh?”
“I’m perfectly sure,” she returned impatiently. “The notes must have
stuck. How much do you make me short?”
“Count for yourself.”
She took them out and laid them on the counter. There was a short
silence broken only by the rustle of the paper and the ticking of the
clock.
Suddenly she raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes, without
a word.
He stood her gaze for a brief space, then turned it to the notes. His
fist banged the counter.
“Five pound short—a five-pound note—where is it?”
Still she stared at him silent.
“Can ye no answer?” he snarled at last.
She answered with an odd, slow smile. It maddened him. He strode across
to the passage and shouted for his sister.
Miss Corrie came at once. “What’s the matter, John? Mind, the lad’s in
the shop.”
“Send him to his dinner.”
Kitty spoke. “No. I want a witness.”
“A witness!” screeched the woman. “What for?”
Corrie pushed her aside, and bawled—
“Peter, ye can go for your dinner now.” He waited until he heard a door
open and close, then wheeled and said to his sister—“She’s five pound
short.”
Miss Corrie threw up her hands.
“Yes,” said Kitty quietly, “I’m five pounds short.”
The woman was about to speak, but her brother motioned her to hold her
tongue.
“I want to know where that five-pound note is. . . . Do ye hear me,
girl?”
She paid not the slightest attention.
“See here, Rachel,” he said, somewhat wildly, “she admits she got
twenty-seven pound from Torrance this morning. She had the key o’ the
drawer all the time I was here my lone. As you and the boy can swear I
never passed to the house. When I checked the cash in her presence, I
found her five pound short. . . . And she won’t say what’s become o’
it.”
“Tell him,” cried Miss Corrie. “Speak!”
“What’s the use?” said the girl, and there was a pause.
“Were ye up the stair at your dinner-time?” he demanded.
No answer.
“Ay; I heard her,” said her aunt.
“Then it’s my duty to—to make a search,” he said in a thick voice.
“Get the police,” said Kitty. “They’re honest.”
He all but lost control then. “Up to your room!” he roared. “Rachel,
you maun come likewise.”
Kitty turned and led the way. She felt that this was only the beginning
of the ghastly farce, nothing could possibly be found in her room unless
her uncle contrived to put it there while he was pretending to search,
and she would see to it that he was not allowed to manage that!
“If it’s no in there,” said Corrie, as they reached the small landing,
“your aunt’ll ha’ to search your person. Go inside the two o’ ye. I’ll
bide here. Rachel, you make search.”
Kitty began to feel puzzled in a dull, dreary fashion. Her uncle could
play no tricks from where he stood. Why should he make such a long
business of the matter? He had failed to terrify her, and—
“Where’ll I search?” wailed Miss Corrie.
“Every place. It’s got to be found,” replied her brother. “It’s
Government money.”
“It’ll take a long, long time. Would ye no give her another chance to—to
speak?”
“She’s had her chance. Hurry up!”
It was no doubt natural that Miss Corrie should start with the chest of
drawers that served also for a dressing table, placed at an angle with
the window and near it. She drew out the right-hand top drawer.
“Turn it out on the floor,” he ordered.
Kitty sat down on the bed and apathetically watched the scattering of her
poor little fineries, gloves, ribbons, fancy buttons, and so on.
“It’s no’ there, anyway,” remarked Rachel, rising at last.
She opened the neighbour drawer, and Kitty winced, for it held her
father’s manuscripts.
“Oh!” gasped Rachel, and stood petrified.
“Hurry up!” called her brother, and she started.
“It—it’s here,” she whispered, and held it up.
Corrie strode in, snatched it and held it close to his niece’s face.
Kitty was white as death now. What dumb innocence, what loud defence,
could stand against this?
Her aunt slunk from the room.
“Well,” said Corrie at last in a lowered voice, “I’ll let ye go free now;
I’ll let ye go free till this time to-morrow—no, till ten o’clock
to-morrow night. But if ye want to go free after that, ye know the
way—the only way. Now ye can think over it. I’ll mind the office
myself.”
With that he went out.
Had Kitty held a weapon of any sort then, she would certainly have tried
to kill him.
* * * * *
In the evening her aunt brought her some tea, set it down, and retired
without a word. But no restraint was put on her movements. Restraint
was unnecessary. Where could she go, penniless? Later, when she heard
Symington’s voice in the kitchen, she stole downstairs and out of doors.
In the dusk, an hour afterwards, she stood at her old place, waiting the
roaring approach, the thundering dash past, of the London mail. Colin
Hayward would not be on board, she told herself, and wondered vaguely
why, after all, he had left early in the morning. And now he would be in
London, and things there would already be making him forget her. She did
not love him as she judged a maid should love a man—but oh! how gladly
she would have yielded now to his tender arms and his kind voice. . . .
The train was coming—it was nearly on her. Something white fluttered
from a window. But the signal could not be for her!—and yet with her
heart in her eyes she gazed. And just for a tick of time she had a
glimpse of Colin’s face. It was all over.
She laid her arms on the fence, and bowed her face on them, and wept as
never she had wept in all her one-and-twenty years—such tears of
bitterness, such tears of loneliness.
Perhaps Sam, quitting his post on the railway, may have wondered at the
bowed figure, but he went off discreetly by his one way, a hundred yards
further down the field.
In the starry darkness Kitty came to herself, and slowly made her way to
the only home she had. Emotion had weakened her physically, but her
spirit yet struggled strongly in the toils. She had still nearly
twenty-four hours of freedom, such as it was. To-night it was too late
for any persecution from Alec Symington, who surely must have left the
cottage some time ago, and gone home, for it was now nearing eleven
o’clock.
But on the road, at the gate of the field, he was waiting.