capital," said Miss Ethel. "He has a wonderful head for business. Any
difficulties that he may have will be only temporary." They were both
talking without heeding particularly what they said, nervously
engrossed by the errand on which they were bent.
But at last they turned the corner of Emerald Avenue, and the blank
fact had to be faced. "That is our house, then. Number fifteen," said
Miss Ethel.
So they went through the little iron gate, and an old man came hobbling
across the street to speak to them. "Good morning, ladies," he said in
a high trembling voice. "I hear you're going to live here. I hear my
darter's a-going to have you for a neighbour. Well! well! Who'd
a-thought it?"
His intention was kindly, but his manner showed a sort of triumph
underneath: it was in some way gratifying to him that Miss Ethel, who
used to give him tobacco and other little comforts, had come down to
the same level as his daughter. Not that he had received anything
lately, because Miss Ethel had nothing to give, while his son-in-law
made good wages and his daughter let rooms. At any rate Miss Ethel
missed the power to give far more than he missed the tobacco; and that
from no desire to patronize--though perhaps she did like the gratifying
glow of that feeling a little--but because of the real goodness and
generosity at the bottom of her nature.
"I'm sure we shall be glad to have such good neighbours," she said
pleasantly.
"Yes, yes. My darter's family wants for nothing. They've gotten one
of these 'ere gramophones an all," chuckled the old man. "You'll hear
it through the wall and it'll mebbe cheer you up if you feel dowly.
But it's hard moving at your time of life."
Then he went off, chuckling and muttering to himself, and Mrs. Bradford
and Miss Ethel walked up the tiny path to the house which was to be
their home for the rest of their lives. But before they reached the
door it opened from within, and there stood Laura Temple. She was
smiling, and yet her kind eyes were bright with tears which she could
scarcely keep from falling--for the two ageing women looked somehow so
forlorn in the bright sunshine on the threshold of all this
strangeness. But after the briefest pause Miss Ethel relieved the
situation by saying briskly: "So you have opened the windows. Now that
was good of you."
"Oh, Nanty did that. She's here, too," said Laura. Then they all went
through the narrow passage into the front room.
"There is only one corner where I can have my chair," said Mrs.
Bradford immediately. "Laura dear, those who lead an active life can't
understand how important it is for anyone like me to have a chair in
the right place. But you have not been well yourself. I can quite
understand your not wanting to go away on a honeymoon when you are not
feeling well. I shall never forget having a bilious attack on my own
honeymoon. I would always recommend a small medicine chest as part of
the wedding outfit--sore-throat remedies and gregory powder, and so on.
My dear husband said that, so far as he was concerned, biliousness did
not destroy romance; but there are bridegrooms and bridegrooms, and you
never know until----"
"We'd better begin measuring the floor," interposed Miss Ethel
uneasily, anxious to cut short this unusual loquacity on the part of
Mrs. Bradford, which she knew to be caused by the general upset of
looking forward to an entire change of place and routine. "Don't you
think the old dining-room carpet will do very well here?"
She opened the room door suddenly to discover Miss Panton just outside
suppressing her emotion with a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Now
she was obliged to let it finally escape in a sort of whoop. "Oh!
Excuse me. I can't help it! It's the thought of you here," she said
excitedly. "I know silence is golden, but there are tibes---- And to
see Miss Ethel going round on her hands and dees with a tape beasure as
if it was only an ordinary spring cleaning----" Never had the catarrh
been so marked and so marked in its effects on her m's and n's.
"Nonsense! We shall be quite comfortable here and much less work to
do. Thousands of richer people than ourselves are having to move into
smaller houses," said Miss Ethel; but she was touched all the same.
"I'm not sure my chair will stand in that corner," said Mrs. Bradford,
going back to her great preoccupation. "I must measure it. I do wish
I had it here."
"I can easily run and get the measurements," said Laura.
"You're sure it won't upset you," said Miss Panton. "You know you
ought to take care."
"Of course not," said Laura. "I'm nearly all right again."
But she stood facing the strong light which fell through the
uncurtained window, and her face looked very pale beneath the tan; it
had the queer bleached appearance which is observable in such
complexions even while the healthy brown and red still remain. There
were dark marks underneath her eyes, too, which accentuated the faint
lines near the mouth. Miss Ethel, glancing across at her was struck
for the first time by the fact that Laura was not a young girl any
more, though the effect of girlishness produced by her figure and the
poise of her head still remained.
Then she went away to measure the chair, while Miss Ethel wrote some
figures in a little book and remarked that she would now go up to the
front bedroom.
"Then I'll just stay where I am," said Mrs. Bradford. "There is
nothing for two to do, is there? And you know my legs, of course----"
She did not trouble to be more explicit, because her unusual garrulity
was dying down now Miss Panton and Laura had gone, and she knew Ethel
would be reasonable enough to understand that the legs of a married
lady could not be expected to go up and down stairs as easily as those
of a spinster.
Miss Ethel herself so belonged to the generation when a married woman
was necessarily on a different and higher level than an "old maid,"
that though she knew her sister in many ways to be a fool, she yet
bowed to the unassailable superiority of the widow. She really did
feel that the useless legs of her widowed sister were more worthy of
consideration than her own unwedded limbs as she trudged upstairs.
When she spread the measuring tape across the floor in front of the
window, her glance wandered for a moment to the house opposite where a
fat woman in an untidy blouse was standing in the doorway laughing and
talking with the milkman. A small child dragged a noisy cart along the
pavement, eating at the same time a large piece of Yorkshire pie. Then
a second woman opened the next door and joined the fun. They were all
jolly together, self-satisfied. They had done well, and were relaxing
after the rush of the season; but they seemed very far away from Miss
Ethel as she looked out of the window.
Still she never thought of envying them their jollity and
self-satisfaction. Deep in her heart she knew she would rather be
herself with nothing, than such as they with everything. She had only
a vague sense of uneasiness, which was deepened by the sound of the
gramophone next door grinding out "Home, sweet Home." For her sake the
old man--who lived with his daughter during the winter when lodgers
were few--had sinned against the law which prohibited his use of the
new gramophone. This was partly because he really wanted to cheer Miss
Ethel, and partly because he realized his daughter's good fortune
better when he thought of the ladies listening to him through the wall.
But Miss Ethel's attention was soon distracted, for a baby wailed in
the house on the other side, and a fish cart went past ringing a loud
bell to warn the women to run out with their dishes. The bell was
harsh in tone, filling the street with clamour, and when the cart
started again after a purchase the bell pealed afresh each time. It
was some time before the desire of Emerald Avenue for the harvest of
the sea was satisfied, but in the comparative silence which at last
ensued, Miss Ethel pressed her hand to her forehead as she rose dizzily
from her knees. For a moment or two the house opposite looked blurred,
then the haziness passed off, and she saw the road lying empty in the
grey light--the lace-curtained windows, the sideboard with a mirror
back on the far side of the room, even the vase of faded flowers.
But despite the minute definiteness of it all, she had a most queer
feeling of unreality. She told herself that this would probably be her
home until she died, and that there was nothing to complain of--she
ought to be ashamed to complain. But the words which were forming on
the surface of her thoughts seemed to have no relation whatever to
anything going on underneath. She could not, or would not try to see
deep down, because that odd sense of unreality rather frightened her;
but something rose up like an emanation--a presentiment, she would have
called it, had she allowed herself to do so. But the whole idea of her
living here seemed so pervaded with bleak unreality, as she stood there
looking out of the window, that it seemed to be wiped out of the scheme
of actual human happenings. Then from that under-swirl of feeling rose
one definite thought: "I shall never live here."
She turned abruptly from the window, bracing herself by saying aloud:
"Bless me! I'm getting like the old women in Back Hoggate. I shall
soon be counting my ailing relatives over if a spark flies out of the
candle." But even this comparison of herself with the superstitious
inhabitants of the oldest part of Thorhaven did not drive away that
unpleasant feeling, and she felt relieved by the sound of a human voice
calling up the stairs: "Miss Ethel! I've brought the key. And I have
put your lunch ready, and left the kettle on. I thought you might be
glad of a cup of tea."
The voice, fresh, confident, full of abounding vitality, dispelled
those queer sensations of Miss Ethel's. She came to the top of the
stairs and thanked Caroline, for she had learned that she could no
longer take good and willing service for granted. The extent, indeed,
to which she had been bowed by circumstances, showed in her anxious,
almost humble manner, as she hastened to add--despite her annoyance
about the gossip concerning Caroline and Godfrey: "I hope you found the
small beef-steak pie I left for your dinner? I forgot to tell you it
was in the safe."
"Oh, I got all I wanted, thank you," said Caroline, adding as she went
again down the passage: "I'll come straight in, Miss Ethel."
For she had felt very sorry for these two women as she busied herself
about the house all the morning, doing her best to make things cheerful
against their return. But on the way here, a few minutes ago, she had
met Laura Temple on the road, and that put everything else out of her
mind. She actually held her breath as they approached, wondering what
would happen. If Laura had heard any of the gossip that was about the
town her salutation--supposing she gave one at all--would be different.
But her pleasant "Good morning, Miss Raby," was just the same as usual;
and though there might be a stiffness about Miss Panton's greeting,
that lady never had been cordial.
But the brief encounter had left Caroline disturbed, confused,
breathless--as if she had been running too fast for her strength. Her
knees shook under her as she went on her way towards Emerald Avenue,
though she looked just as usual--able to exchange a chaffing word with
a boy of her acquaintance. For she, no less than other human beings,
would be obliged to go through the tremendous crises of her emotional
existence in the street, or at a party, or in a tram-car--her real self
kept close, enshrouded by that strange cloak which hides every man from
his neighbour.
Still it was obvious that Laura knew nothing. The marriage really had
been put off for the reason stated. No one could doubt that who saw
Laura's face even casually in the street.
Caroline had nearly reached Emerald Avenue when it occurred to her that
Laura was probably going to the Cottage and would need her key. But
she could not run after her with it. She felt a physical revulsion at
the bare thought of speaking to a girl who was engaged to
Godfrey--talking to him--receiving his kisses----
It had seemed almost easy, that first night on the cliff top, to behave
decently about it all. But then everything had turned different. She
could scarcely realize now how it had then seemed so clear, so entirely
possible at once to give him up, and to be always certain of his love.
The difficulties and confusions all came afterwards.
She told herself once more as she walked along that Godfrey could not
possibly be such a cad as to throw over a poor girl who was crazy about
him just before the wedding day, nor could he be meeting another girl
on the sly at the same time.
And yet the sick trembling brought on by the sight of Laura remained
until she reached Emerald Avenue. She had no room in her thoughts for
the sorrows of others when she arrived with the key.
Miss Ethel came down directly she left, having finished measuring the
floors; and after a while Laura came back to say that she had stupidly
forgotten when she met Caroline on the way to ask her if the house were
locked, so that she and Miss Panton could not get in, of course. She
thought it strange that Caroline had not mentioned the key, as she had
it in her hand; and after wondering about this a little they all went
away, walking together to the end of the street. Here the ladies from
the Cottage turned off towards the north, and when they had gone a
little way in silence, Miss Ethel said: "Flamborough looks very clear
to-day. We shall have rain." For she hoped by starting this subject
to turn her sister's slow-moving thoughts away from the new house. She
felt just then that she simply could not endure to discuss it.
But Mrs. Bradford did not want to talk about Flamborough.
"I do wish," she said, "Laura had got the measurements of my chair. I
am afraid there may not be room for it on that side of the fire----"
So all the way home, at intervals, she kept bemoaning the possible lack
of space for her chair.
Miss Ethel felt very tired. But at last they reached the gate of the
Cottage, and as they walked up the drive they saw that a man was at
work taking up the privet hedge. He was doing it badly, mauling the
fine roots in a way that made Mrs. Bradford for once almost energetic
in her annoyance.
"Don't look! I can't bear to look at our poor hedge," she said,
turning her head away.
Miss Ethel's glance rested indifferently on the man and the partially
destroyed hedge. "What does it matter?" she said, and walked on to the
front door.
"You mean, because we shall not be here?" said Mrs. Bradford uneasily,
for even she felt there was something a little uncomfortable in her
sister's voice and look.
But Miss Ethel's glance passed over the neat little lozenge-shaped
leaves which lay torn from their place but still clinging to the
branches, almost with indifference: then she went straight into the
hall, making no reply, and Mrs. Bradford followed slowly, filled with
the dull discomfort of the cat turned out of its basket. Her feeling
was different from Miss Ethel's--less acute--but she was not in the
least consoled by her vague knowledge that she was sharing this
experience with thousands of middle-aged men and women all over Europe.
_Chapter XIX_
_A Windy Morning_
It was the last week of the Thorhaven season, and a gale from the
south-west tore across the little town, blowing away all the remaining
visitors--excepting a few barnacles who had moved into the cheap rooms
or furnished houses, and intended to stay for the winter.
Miss Ethel heard the familiar sounds of windows rattling and chimneys
roaring as they do in an old house, but she was so used to them that
she never heeded; they formed part of the background of her life
without which, she vaguely apprehended, she would appear as baldly
incomplete as a figure cut out with sharp scissors from an old print.
But as she stood there on the landing she became gradually aware of
another noise with which she was not familiar, for the simple reason
that Ellen had never set the maid's door and window sufficiently wide
open in a high wind to produce a gale rushing through the house with
such a flap and clatter of blinds and curtains.
Miss Ethel frowned as she marched into the room for she saw the
casement window set wide, banging to and fro on the metal fastener. A
little more, and it would be blown clear out, to lie shattered on the
path below. But when she had closed it, she was suddenly struck by the
entire absence of that peculiar close odour which had always been
present when the room was occupied by the immaculate Ellen and her
predecessors. Now there was only the fresh feeling of salt air,
mingled with a very faint fragrance of violets which came either from
the soap or from the powder on the toilet table. A nail-polisher lay
on the looking-glass, hastily thrown down; and that also witnessed to
that bodily self-respect which Caroline shared with nearly all those
other girls in Thorhaven who would have been in domestic service ten
years ago, but now went daily to shops and offices. They meant to be
the equal of any girls in the world, and they began by being personally
"nice" in those secret ways, which are only apparent in the general
effect. You could meet them anywhere up and down--clear skins
sometimes too heavily powdered--bright hair--pink fingers with
delicately tended finger-nails.
Caroline had gone off hurriedly that morning, because she wanted to do
as much housework as she could before leaving for the promenade. She
was sorry for Miss Ethel, who did not look at all well, though this
feeling was blunted by her pre-occupation with her own troubles--for it
had become quite plain that Godfrey was deliberately avoiding her.
At this moment she was walking quickly along the road, head to the
wind; then, turning, found herself sheltered from west and south to
some extent by the houses opposite the promenade. But once in the
little pay-box she had to listen all day while the little window
rattled unceasingly, and the boards creaked as the gale swept across
them.
The weather remained like that during the whole week, and Caroline was
on duty all day excepting for her meal-times. Occasionally a gleam of
sun touched the white crests of the breakers, but immediately
afterwards a sharp spatter of rain would drive in the faces of the few
who were tempted out.
The hours seemed endless to Caroline as she sat there--listening to the
howl and rattle of the wind, and the roaring of the sea, without
knowing that she listened to them. But very gradually she began to
feel in her spirit the effect of that deep, endless booming, and of the
tremendous procession of the breakers that came on and on all day long.
It made her almost dizzy, but when she turned for relief to the land,
the promenade and the little town itself seemed only like leaves swept
together by chance for a moment on the edge of a torrent. A horrid
sense of the shortness of life assailed Caroline now, as it will
sometimes assail young people when they are dispirited. She felt that
cold breath from the immense spaces of eternity to which the young are
still sensitive.
But the week would soon be over---- She consoled herself by that
thought as she sat before the little window knitting a woollen coat to
wear when she went to office in Flodmouth. Every now and then she
glanced drearily at the grey waves with the white crests, coming on and
on---- It was a rotten world, and she didn't care. What was the good
of it all, anyway?
Then a subscriber passed through to the promenade; but her reply to his
remark about the weather was as mechanical as her release of the iron
turnstile. Directly he was gone she looked out to sea again, thinking
now of a girl who had been drowned farther along the coast not long
before. Well, she only wished the waves would come over the promenade
and take her with them, then she'd be out of it all.
But she did not mean that really; because certain qualities she
inherited from her sturdy Yorkshire ancestors would always prevent her
from choosing the way of the neurotic. She would be brave enough to
live out her life, though she had ceased to expect happiness as a right.
A sharp gust of rain on the window made her look down the promenade.
Now the stray figures would come scurrying through again to their homes
or lodgings, and she automatically prepared to release the turnstile
quickly to oblige people in haste. Then, with a little leap of the
pulses, she saw Aunt Creddle. It was Aunt Creddle, out at half-past
eleven on baking-day, with her print, working dress ballooning under
that old coat and the hair straggling over her face. Caroline jumped
up and ran out of the pay-box, her knitting still in her hand, the
shower of cold, sharp drops driving across her.
"What's the matter?" she cried. "Has one of the children got hurt?"
Mrs. Creddle so panted for breath that she could only sign with a
toil-scarred hand for Caroline to go back into shelter, but on reaching
a little protection from the wind she managed to gasp out:
"Nobody's ill. There's nothing the matter. Not in a manner of
speaking. Can I come inside there?"
Caroline took her arm and put her into the chair, then shut the door in
the side of the little wooden turret. They two seemed very close
together in the midst of the storm and wind.
"Why, whatever made you come out like this?" said Caroline, removing
the wet cloak. "You must have wanted a job, aunt."
Mrs. Creddle shook her head, her hand on her heart--for she was a stout
woman and upset by her tussle with the elements. "You may be sure that
it was something that wouldn't keep," she said at last. Then she burst
forth: "Carrie, your uncle has been to Mr. Wilson! He's been and told
him that if he ever catches you together again he'll break a stick over
his back. He lost a couple of hours this morning, and he went and told
him. Now he's gone to his work, and I come on here."
"What!" gasped Caroline, her eyes black in a face as white as death.
"Uncle's dared to insult me by doing a thing like that? What made him
do it?"
"He was at the Buffaloes last night, and when they came away he heard
one man say to another that you was Wilson's fancy lady----" She
paused and added in a low tone: "They said you'd been stopping out all
night."
"Uncle knows I didn't," said Caroline, beginning to tremble. "What
beasts men are! Didn't uncle tell them?"
"Oh yes; he told 'em right enough. But he come home in a fine rage, I
can tell you. He said he wasn't going to have no more of it: and I
believe he would have gone straight to Miss Temple--only she has always
behaved very decent to us, and he didn't like to make mischief, seeing
she is so set on the feller."
"Why didn't uncle come to me?" said Caroline. "Why didn't you make
him, aunt?"
Mrs. Creddle shook her head. "When you know as much about men as I
do----"
"But what was his reason?" asked Caroline.
"He said it was no good saying anything to you, because when a lass
gets feller-fond there's no doing nothing with her. He said he
couldn't use the strap to you now, but he wasn't going to have any lass
belonging to him talked about in that way."
There was a moment's silence. "Did uncle tell you what Mr. Wilson
said?" Then she threw up her head. "But I expect he threatened to go
for uncle."
"Go for him!" echoed Mrs. Creddle. "Not he. He only wanted to get
away and not have a scandal in the place."
"I don't believe that," said Caroline. "Uncle can say what he likes,
but I don't believe that."
"It's true, my lass," said Mrs. Creddle kindly. "I ran along to tell
you now, for fear you should come across Wilson or your uncle before
you knew. He promised on his honour to have naught no more to do with
you."
"Did he?" said Caroline, her blazing eyes very near to her aunt's in
that tiny place. "Then he is a day too late for the fair--and uncle
too. You may tell uncle that. I haven't seen Mr. Wilson for ten days
or more, and I'll never enter uncle's house again as long as I live."