The meeting with Bessie Clapp set Prudence's mind working in new
directions. She realised, with an immense pity and a growing wonder for
the complexities of human emotions, that this girl, whose motherhood had
come to her in circumstances which the world surrounds with contumely
and disgrace, had no love for the child of her unlawful passion. She
had allowed Prudence to discover that. But for the fear of consequent
punishment, she had admitted with bitterness that she would do away with
the baby. She confessed too to a hatred of its father.
Prudence wondered whether this unnatural dislike for her own offspring
resulted from the shame with which its birth had covered her, or was the
inevitable consequence of the revulsion of feeling which had swept from
her heart every kindly emotion which must have drawn her once towards
the man she now professed aversion for. The man who had injured her had
a lot to answer for. If ever it lay in her power to hurt him in return
it was fairly certain that she would not hesitate to use her
opportunity. The silence which she maintained in regard to his name was
no guarantee of a wish to shield him; it suggested rather a caution
which awaited its hour to strike.
The meeting left Prudence with a feeling of depression. It did not
decrease her pity, but it lessened her liking for the girl to discover
her attitude of bitter resentment against the helpless mite she had
brought into the world. And it set her thinking about marriage in a new
light. Was it possible to cease to love a man one had loved once
passionately? And could a woman grow to hate the children of a loveless
marriage? If these matters were beyond the control of human will power,
it seemed that it might be so. Here was an example of it anyway, though
it might be a bad example. Until that talk with Bessie Clapp it had
never occurred to Prudence that a woman could dislike her own child. It
was one of the inexplicable problems of life.
Prudence reached home to discover that she was late. Miss Agatha met
her in the hall, already dressed for the evening meal, which was the
most important function of the day, and at which no one was expected to
put in a tardy appearance. Miss Agatha glanced from the warning face of
the great clock at the foot of the staircase to the sweet flushed face
of her young sister, and from thence to her dust-soiled shoes.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "Don't you see the time?"
"I'll hurry," Prudence answered. "It won't take me three minutes to
change. I've been for a tramp."
"You have a deceitful habit," Miss Agatha admonished her, "of slipping
away from the house without informing anyone. If you were less selfish
it might occur to you that your sisters would like to accompany you
occasionally. I can't understand why you prefer to walk alone."
"I shall be late," Prudence said, with her foot on the stair, "if I stay
to go into that now."
And with a rebellious face she ran upstairs, leaving Miss Agatha, aghast
and indignant, looking up from the foot of the staircase after her
vanishing figure. Prudence was getting altogether out of hand.
"She tramps the country," William affirmed on learning the trouble,
"like a factory girl. I won't have my sister making herself so
noticeable--mooning about the lanes and hanging over stiles. It--it
isn't respectable."
"I wish," Miss Agatha said, meanly shifting responsibility, "that you
would put your foot down. If you were firm she might possibly respect
your wishes. I can do nothing with her."
"M'm!" William coughed gently, and assumed an expression which he hoped
conveyed the air of inflexibility he deemed suited to the responsible
position thus conferred on him. "I'll see to it," he said; and felt
relieved when the gong sounded in advance of Prudence's entry, and so
deferred the moment for exercising his authority.
He was less confident than Agatha that firmness on his part would
produce the result desired. He had in mind the occasion when he had
insisted upon an apology before the resumption of fraternal relations
with his young sister. He had maintained a dignified silence until the
thing threatened to become ridiculous, and still the apology had not
been forthcoming: he had been forced to capitulate; and the memory of
that defeat rankled. But the lesson had been salutary in so far that it
discouraged him from straining his authority to a point whence it
aggravated to open revolt. Defiance was a quality which defeated
William's statesmanship.
Prudence came running down the stairs as the rest of the family crossed
the hall on the way to the dining-room.
"You ran it pretty close, Prue," her father said, as she took the last
couple of stairs at a jump and landed laughing beside him. He patted
the little hand she slipped within his arm.
"You are precisely two minutes late," Miss Agatha observed. "I think
you might have made a greater effort to be punctual."
"I might, of course, have slid down the banisters," Prudence retorted.
"Tut, tut!" Mr Graynor patted the small hand again in gentle reproof.
"You are tomboy enough without scandalising us to that extent."
Save that he held his head a little higher on passing behind her to his
seat at table, William disregarded her presence, a sign by which
Prudence recognised that she was once again in disgrace. It occasioned
her therefore something of a shock when William approached her later
during the evening and requested a few minutes of her time. He had
something of importance, he announced, which he wished to say. This
request in its unexpectedness deprived her for the moment of breath.
She was attracted by his speech and puzzled. She found herself
wondering amazedly what kind of confidence William intended to repose in
her. William found her silence embarrassing; he had expected her to
give him a cue. He cleared his throat, nervously fingering the
arrangement of his tie. Prudence began to feel sympathetic. She
believed he was about to confess to some romantic attachment, although
there was not, so far as she knew, any woman of their acquaintance
likely to inspire sentiment in him. If William were in love, that might
account for his preoccupation during dinner.
"Please give me your whole attention," he said, which was a superfluous
remark even for a commencement; it was so obvious that he was receiving
what he asked for. "It is a little difficult for me, a little--ahem!--
embarrassing to say what I wish to say in view of your inexperience."
This confirmed Prudence's suspicion. She smiled at him encouragingly.
"Oh! I expect I'll understand," she said kindly. "It's nice of you to
tell me, anyhow."
He was taken aback, and he showed it. He had never known Prudence so
amenable before; her attitude discountenanced him slightly.
"I am glad you take so sensible a tone," he returned; "it makes my task
easier. I do not wish to find fault; your conduct is indiscreet rather
than blameworthy. You ought to realise that it is not seemly for a
young girl in your position to tear about the country as you do. I am
not sure that in a factory town it is altogether safe. In any case it
gets you talked about. It distresses your sisters; it distresses me.
It lays you open to misapprehension. Why should you wander about the
roads alone?"
"Oh! Is that all?" Prudence's smile had changed in quality; kindliness
made way for irony. "How do you know I do wander alone?" William
reddened angrily.
"I should be sorry to insult you by supposing the contrary," he replied
with restrained annoyance. "No one in this house credits you with being
other than thoughtless. Your behaviour shows a great want of
consideration for your family."
"It wasn't until to-day that I realised you were all so devoted to me,"
Prudence returned with suspicious meekness. "I have yet to get
accustomed to that idea. So much family affection is embarrassing."
"If you are going to adopt that outrageous tone," William observed with
a resumption of dignity, "I have nothing further to say."
"Don't worry about that," Prudence reassured him. "You haven't left
much unsaid. You have filled my mind with a lot of new ideas that make
it feel like a rubbish heap. If the roads are not safe for a girl to
walk along, it is time some one saw to it that they were made so. As
for being talked about, no one with a decent mind would make matter for
talk where there was none. Are you quite sure, William, that your own
mind doesn't need a little tidying up? Your workpeople at least are
your responsibility. If you have any dubious characters among them,
turn them away--as you turned away Bessie Clapp."
William's face was crimson. He rose and stood looking down at her with
the look of a man who feels himself deeply insulted.
"You forget yourself," he said. "How dare you mention that woman's name
to me?"
"I have held that woman's child in my arms to-day," she answered
quietly. "I think perhaps that gives me the courage."
He bent swiftly and caught her by the shoulder.
"So that's how you spend your time?" he said, staring into her steady
eyes. He emitted an ugly laugh and pushed her roughly from him. "A
decent-minded girl would shrink from such contact."
She smiled coldly.
"It is only the decent mind that does not fear these things," she
answered, and turned away from the look in his eyes, which was not good
to see.
It was by a great effort at control that he refrained from striking her.
He spluttered for words. Confronted with her cool disdain, anger
overcame him. He felt himself at an immense disadvantage.
"You are impossible!" was all he could find to say.
Prudence, thinking over the scene later, while leaning from her window
with the night wind cooling her heated face, wondered what was wrong
with herself that this spirit of antagonism should flame forth at the
slightest provocation. Why could she not endure William, and suffer his
little homilies with patience? Why should Agatha's constant
fault-finding irritate her to the verge of desperation? If she were
possessed of a vein of humour, she told herself, these things would
merely afford amusement. But they did not amuse. They were slowly
souring a naturally sweet disposition.
Big tears welled in the blue eyes, hung for a space on her lashes, and
fell like silver dew upon the rose-leaves beneath the sill--hot tears
that sprang from the well of discontent which had its source in a vain
longing for unattainable things.