Was there suspicion in the face of Mrs Bowater that evening? Our usual
familiar talk dwindled to a few words this supper-time. The old conflict
was raging in my mind--hatred of my deceit, horror at betraying an
accomplice, and longing for the solemn quiet and solitude of the dark. I
crushed my doubtings down and cast a dismal, hostile look at the long
face, so yellow of skin and sombre in expression. When would she be gone
and leave me in peace? The packed little parlour hung stagnant in the
candlelight. It seemed impossible that Mrs Bowater could not hear the
thoughts in my mind. Apparently not. She tidied up my few belongings,
which, contrary to my usual neat habits, I had left scattered over the
table. She bade me good-night; but paused in the doorway to look back at
me. But what intimacy she had meant to share with me was put aside.
"Good-night, miss," she repeated; "and I'm sure, God bless you." It was
the dark, quiet look that whelmed over me. I gazed mutely, without
response, and the silence was broken by a clear voice like that of a
cautious mocking-bird out of a wood.