to heart because he thinks such a lot of you. But you'll soon find
some nice young feller in your own station of life next time: don't go
hankering after a gentleman, my dear. You would never get one of the
best sort, and the other sort's no good to you." She sighed. "But you
always had high notions, Carrie, though I don't know where you get them
from. I suppose they're going about." With that Mrs. Creddle opened
the little door of the pay-box, and let in a blast of air that nearly
blew her hat from her head; then she hurried down the wind-swept road
in order to get her husband's dinner ready before that already
irritated breadwinner should return.
But Caroline sat down again on her chair and threw open the little
window so that the salt air could blow across her face. She did not
want to cry, because at any minute some one might want to come through
the barrier; but after a minute or two she had no fear of that. She
began to burn so with outraged pride that she could not yet feel the
deeper ache of wounded love. Over and over again the words formed of
themselves on the surface of the whirling storm in her mind: "I aren't
_going_ to give in! I aren't _going_ to be pitied!"
Then a member of the promenade band came along, fighting with the gale,
obliged to fetch some music which he had left in the hall the night
before. "Wild morning! Can't say I'm sorry we close to-morrow," he
said.
Caroline answered him, but he still lingered, though he had never taken
any particular notice of her before, and did not know why he felt
inclined to stop to-day. He suddenly felt that Caroline was
interesting, though he was not actually aware of that odd shining of
the spirit through the flesh--like a lamp in an alabaster vase--which
was characteristic of Caroline in moments of supreme, passionate
emotion. All he thought was, that there was something unusual about
the girl, and that he was sorry he had not noticed it before.
Still, as a decent married man with a wife and children, he took such
pleasures as talking to the girl on the promenade in strict moderation,
so very soon he went off with his mackintosh flapping.
A few minutes later Lillie came to relieve guard, her woollen tam o'
shanter wet and her front hair blown out of curl.
"I've had about enough of this," she said. "I'm going to find another
job before next summer."
"Oh, I expect your job will be putting your boy's slippers before the
fire and getting his tea ready," said Caroline, still speaking from the
very top of her thoughts--as careful as if she were treading on very
thin ice, not to risk the depths.
The prospective bride giggled, gratified, and Caroline went out; but
the next minute she was startled to hear Lillie call shrilly from the
little window: "Carrie! Carrie! You've forgotten your umbrella, and
on a day like this! You must be in love!"
Caroline took the umbrella, but said nothing; she was at the end of her
powers.
_Chapter XX_
_Levelling_
When Caroline reached the Cottage she was surprised to see the front
door standing wide open, for the storm swept full across the garden
from the south now that the privet hedge was taken up. The next moment
Laura came out, her face almost ghastly under the tan, and she put her
hand on Caroline's arm.
"There's bad news," she said, and paused. Caroline's thoughts flew to
Godfrey, and her heart missed a beat. Then Laura went on again: "Miss
Ethel has had a fall. I am afraid she is very seriously ill indeed.
She was carrying a china pail downstairs and it was too heavy for her."
Caroline stared into Laura's face, forgetting Godfrey. "Oh, Miss
Laura! I know what it was. I forgot to empty the pail, and she was
doing it. If she dies I have killed her. It's my fault. It's all my
fault!"
"Oh no; nothing of the sort," said Laura, a little impatiently, for she
had no clue to Caroline's previously over-wrought condition. "The
doctor thinks the fall was owing to some sort of seizure."
Then they entered the house together, and as they crossed the hall
Wilson came out from the sitting-room; but beyond a grave good morning
to Caroline he said nothing, passing at once to the coat lobby to fetch
his hat and coat.
Caroline hesitated a moment, not quite knowing what to do: then she
went into the kitchen. Her meal was put ready on the table just as
Miss Ethel had left it, and when Caroline saw the piece of meat and the
cold tart and bread so neatly arranged for her by those hands so long
unaccustomed to manual labour, she felt her lips begin to tremble. It
was hard. Poor Miss Ethel! Poor Miss Ethel! If only she had
remembered to empty that pail! If only---- And all at once she was
seized by a passion of weeping which she could neither stop nor
control. But it was not really for Miss Ethel--it was for that,
terrible blow to her love and pride which came before.
Then Miss Panton came into the kitchen with a hot-water bottle; so
Caroline sprang up, choking back her sobs. "Here, let me fill that,
Miss Panton!" As she went to the fireplace where there was a kettle
boiling, she added in a low voice: "How is Miss Ethel now?"
"The doctor says she is unconscious," answered Miss Panton, also
speaking in the unnatural voice which people use at such a time. "It
was a blessing the man happened to be laying sods where the privet
hedge used to be, or I don't know what Mrs. Bradford would have done.
She ran out to him, and he fetched the woman who lives in that new
house over the hedge. It seems she was a trained nurse before she
married."
"I hope Miss Ethel didn't know. She hated that house being built,"
said Caroline.
"I don't think she knew; but it wouldn't have mattered to her, poor
dear," said Miss Panton. "I suppose that's why it is so dreadful to
feel that nothing matters--it always has a taste of death." She spoke
from the deeps of her own experience, wise with what she had lived
through; but the next second she turned uncertain again and thrust
forth one of her copy-book maxims. "Yes, yes. Decessity makes strange
bed-fellows."
Caroline fastened the hot-water bag. "I'll run upstairs with this,"
she said. "Then I shall see if there is anything else I can do."
"I am afraid there is dothing anyone can do," said Miss Panton, for her
catarrh had come back with her nervous self-consciousness.
Mrs. Bradford came slowly downstairs into the hall, her big face
congested with weeping. "Oh, Caroline!" she said.
But she could not say any more, and walked on into the sitting-room
where the Vicar was already seated.
"Oh, Vicar: I'm afraid you are too late," she said, and began to weep
afresh. "It's so dreadfully, dreadfully sudden."
"I came the moment Mr. Wilson told me. I chanced to be in the house,"
said the Vicar. He paused. "I wouldn't trouble too much about my
being late, Mrs. Bradford. Miss Ethel did not leave things until now,
you know. She was ready to meet her God."
"She is quite unconscious," said Mrs. Bradford. "At first she kept
murmuring over and over: 'Everything's so different.--everything's so
different.' But the doctor said it was probably what she was saying to
herself when she fell. It meant nothing."
"Meant nothing!" It was Miss Panton's voice, which cut abruptly across
their solemn conversation, startling them both; but she had again
forgotten herself entirely. "You say it meant nothing--when she's
dying of it."
"Of what? Of things being different!" said Laura, speaking from a
corner of the room where she had intended to remain silent.
But some one had to break that terrible pause. For Miss
Panton--Nanty--with all her silliness had spoken words which were to
all of them like a search-light suddenly turned upon the inner secrets
of the woman who was dying upstairs.
"Poor Ethel! I'm afraid so," said Mrs. Bradford. "It's true that she
did take things to heart--about the new houses, and the hedge, and all
the rest." But the next moment that blinding light was blurred in Mrs.
Bradford's mind: "Of course I disliked the changes too--only I took
them differently. I am sure they did not produce my sister's illness.
Of course not." And she glanced at Miss Panton with heavy-eyed
disfavour.
"I am afraid Miss Ethel dreaded the idea of leaving this house," said
the Vicar.
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "You see, it was the only home my
sister ever knew." And despite her real grief, she glanced up
instinctively at Mr. Bradford's portrait, triumphing over the sister
who lay upstairs.
"Some natures find these swift and tremendous changes harder to bear
than others," said the Vicar. "But there is only one way for people
like ourselves to take it, Mrs. Bradford. We must be kind, do the next
job, and hold fast----"
Then he broke off, for the nurse was beckoning at the door; the end had
come sooner than they expected.
* * * * * *
Caroline drew down the blinds all over the house and then hovered about
the hall in her coat and hat, not knowing whether to go back to the
promenade or not. Lillie would want to leave, of course; but then she
herself might be required here. At last Godfrey came through, but he
did not seem real to her. She was so exhausted by her own emotion and
by the shock of Miss Ethel's death, that she was actually indifferent
to him for the moment.
"Do you think I ought to go for Aunt Creddle?" she said tonelessly.
"They will want some one to help."
He did not answer at once, looking at her with a harassed expression,
as if he scarcely was aware of what she said. He had a strained and
haggard look which sat so oddly on his firm-fleshed, strong-featured
face, but she knew it was not produced by grief for Miss Ethel. There
was a little leap of the heart, then dull apathy again. Of course it
was the money troubles which everybody seemed to know about----
She was about to repeat the question about Aunt Creddle, when Laura
came out of the room, and Godfrey immediately said with an air of
relief: "Oh, here is Miss Temple. She will be able to tell you better
than I can."
Laura paused, and for a moment the two girls stared at each
other--interrogating, blaming, excusing--what was it? Anyway, it was
over in a flash. The next second Caroline felt it was all imagination,
for Laura came forward as frankly as usual, though her kind eyes were a
little swollen with tears.
"What a good idea, Miss Raby," she said. "Mrs. Creddle is such a
comfortable person when one is in trouble. I'm sure Mrs. Bradford will
be glad to have her."
"I'll come back as soon as I have let Lillie know, if there is anything
I can do. I can easily get some other girl to take my place," said
Caroline.
"No, thank you. Really, there is nothing you can do," said Laura.
"You see, there is the nurse and Miss Panton, and myself; besides your
aunt, if she comes. We should only run over each other."
Laura's voice was no less pleasant than before, but Caroline felt
dismissed. The vague impression of that first, odd moment became
startlingly vivid again. But even now she could not be sure that it
was not all imagination--the effect of her own self-consciousness,
after what had passed between herself and Laura's lover.
As she walked down the drive she saw the jobbing gardener had returned
and was continuing to lay sods on the ground where the privet hedge had
been. The thought passed through her mind that it looked like a new
grave fresh sodded. Then she began to plan in her mind what she should
say to Aunt Creddle, and to picture how that good-hearted woman would
take it. At last she remembered her declaration only a few hours
ago--could it be only a few hours ago?--that she would never enter
Uncle Creddle's house again.
Now, it did not seem to matter. The heat of her pride and anger had
died down and she began to see that her love for Godfrey was too deep
to be destroyed by anger or even contempt. He had planted it in her
heart and she must carry it about always. Neither of them by any act
of theirs could take it away from her.
But she was not actively and vitally miserable. Her being was simply
soaked in a dull unhappiness which made her quite indifferent to the
healthy pricking of small annoyances, so that when Mr. and Mrs. Graham
passed her with the barest of cold salutations, and never stopped to
ask for news, even at this sad crisis, she did not care.
She was finding out the truth of what Miss Panton had said in the
kitchen of the cottage--that every time a human being really feels it
does not matter, he or she has a bitter foretaste of death, which is
what makes this of all emotions the most truly sad.
Even when she reached Aunt Creddle's, whose words and exclamations fell
about her ears like hail, she remained the same--delivering her
message, then going on at once to take her place in the pay-box.
Lillie had already heard the news and was rather shocked that she
should wish to remain. "Anybody can see you've been crying. Now,
don't you think about me, Carrie. I don't mind stopping a bit."
"No, thanks, I'd rather be here. After all, it's my job. And they
don't want me--there are plenty there without me," said Caroline.
But Lillie urged her at least to go somewhere and have a nice hot cup
of tea and a rest, even if she were not needed at the Cottage; then at
last departed, rebuffed and slightly irritated.
Caroline sat down on the chair; but she did not take up her knitting,
though the rain now fell heavily, persistently, and fewer people than
ever passed through the barrier. She remained there with her hands
idle, her eyes fixed on the expanse of sea that stretched out before
her, so full of buoyant life, the spray from the breakers blown back
like smoke in the wind under the swiftly-moving grey clouds.
After a while the handful of people who had been listening to the
concert in the hall came out into the rain, shouting remarks to each
other above the gale. "Windiest place in England! Very bracing,
though--too bracing for my taste!"
A little later members of the band scurrying back to their lodgings:
then utter silence, but for the sound of the wind and sea. But just
before Lillie was due back again the weather cleared a little--between
majestic clouds sweeping along like galleons, appeared a stretch of
pure blue sky.
Perhaps it was some association of childhood, some impression she had
gained, then, from a hymn speaking of death; but that bright blue sky
made her suddenly think with an acute vividness of the woman who was
dead. Where was Miss Ethel? What was she doing now?
Caroline's eyes remained fixed on the blue, but her mind had gone
searching into the unknown; she was really groping her way, for the
first time, across the barriers that lie between this life and the life
of the world to come. Her soul really was trying to follow the soul of
one already on the other side. Thus, strangely, it was Miss
Ethel--buffeted and overcome by change--who led Caroline to this first
glimpse of the unchanging.
But these things do not become a conscious part of experience until
long afterwards; so Caroline went home to her tea without knowing what
had happened--only thinking rather more regretfully and kindly than
before about Miss Ethel.
_Chapter XXI_
_St. Martin's Summer_
The storm gave place to still weather the day before Miss Ethel's
funeral. But that was all now over, so was the Sunday morning sermon
wherein the Vicar referred to the good works of the departed, and
during which members of the congregation felt for their
pocket-handkerchiefs who had not troubled to go near the Cottage for
months, or perhaps years.
Though this had happened some days ago the fine weather still held, and
Laura had persuaded Mrs. Bradford to come down to the now deserted
promenade for a little change of scene. They sat silent on the long
bench; Mrs. Bradford a little overdone in her heavy black clothes on
such an unexpectedly warm morning, and Laura looking at a sea which
once more broke in harmless little glittering waves on the firm sand.
The storm had dashed the water right up to the sea-wall, washing away
all traces of the Thorhaven season from that part of the shore, while
on the promenade itself butterflies fluttered among the flower beds
devastated by wind and rain. Far away down the beach, she saw the
donkeys which had been ridden by children all the summer to the
hootings of donkey boys, but they now plodded sedately with gravel in
panniers on their backs up the cliff path, just as their ancestors had
done for centuries past. It seemed really as if some power too immense
for constant interference had grown suddenly tired of bands, visitors,
tents, buckets and spades, and had swept them all away with a gesture,
leaving only the stretch of shore; much as it was before Thorhaven
existed, and as it would be when Thorhaven was under the sea like the
other village beyond, which coast erosion had taken.
Perhaps Laura may have found this contrast between permanence and
fleetingness depressing; anyway, her face was sad as she sat quietly
there, looking in front of her. After a while she turned round to look
inland, where the hall and the café and the pay-box were all shuttered
and closed--already appearing somehow desolate. Then Mrs. Bradford,
having regained her breath, felt that gratitude made a remark necessary.
"Your loss is my gain, my dear," she said. "If you had not put off
your wedding again, you would not be here to keep me company. When is
it to be now?"
The blood deepened in Laura's face right up to the roots of her hair,
but she smiled and answered easily: "Oh, no exact time has been fixed."
"Ah, well; I daresay you are right. You can't enjoy anything--even
getting married--when you are in bad health. I was told the
postponement might have something to do with Godfrey's financial
difficulties," Mrs. Bradford added, "but I felt sure there was nothing
in that report." Still she glanced curiously at the girl by her side.
"No, it was not that." Laura paused, then went on: "Every business man
who is making his way occasionally takes on more business than he has
capital for. But I am sure he will get through all right. It was only
temporary."
"I'm glad of that, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bradford. Then she lowered her
voice confidentially: "But if I were you, I should see that my own
money was securely tied up. Godfrey may be a Wilson, but he is human.
I know poor Ethel would not have said this to you, because she always
thought so much of the family. I don't blame her--poor Ethel!--but
being married naturally gives one a wider view." And having thus
triumphed over Miss Ethel, even in her grave, Mrs. Bradford relapsed
into silence. Laura seemed equally inclined to sit quiet, so nothing
more was said for a considerable time. At last three girls came
walking briskly along the promenade, stimulating a further effort at
conversation.
"I'm glad Caroline has decided to stay with us until our things are
sold," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes. She has been very obliging," said Laura. Then Mrs. Bradford's
thoughts went evenly inward again. "I have arranged to keep my own
chair. The proprietress of the boarding-house at Scarborough has been
very obliging about having it placed in a corner out of the draught.
They like a permanent boarder who is well recommended, and I shall be
quite comfortable so long as I have my own chair in a nice corner, and
my book and my knitting. You see, the sale of the house and furniture
will enable me to take a good room on the first floor. I have no doubt
I shall be all right there"--she paused--"as right as I can be now,
that is to say," she added, her lip trembling.
During the silence which followed, the three girls passed once
more--heads erect and neatly-shod feet stepping lightly on the hard
path. Mrs. Bradford looked after them with a sort of dull aversion.
"Two of those girls' mothers were in service. Why aren't they?"
"I suppose they prefer other employment," said Laura.
"They'd be far better off in domestic service. Now they are only doing
what men can do. But men can't do what the girls' mothers used to do,"
said Mrs. Bradford. "I can't see that they are doing any good in the
world at all."
"Can't you?" Laura hesitated a moment, piecing together her own
thoughts. "Well, do you know, Mrs. Bradford--I didn't think of it
before--but I really do believe girls like those are achieving
something rather wonderful, after all. I believe they are reaching up
to a stage of manners and speech which will soon cause them to merge
with the girls of our own class, so that you can't feel any difference.
Then we shall get the real equality which people are always talking
about. They're doing it the right way, too, levelling up, not
levelling down."
"Oh! Is that how you look at Caroline?" said Mrs. Bradford.
Laura waited for a moment. "Yes," she said then, "Caroline is one of
those I mean."
Mrs. Bradford relapsed into silence again, and they sat so for a long
time. Then Laura rose abruptly: "Oh, here are the Grahams! Do let us
move on."
Mrs. Bradford also rose, impelled by the urgency of her companion's
tone, but wondering in her dull way what it was that made Laura turn so
red, and seem so anxious to get away all of a sudden. Surely Laura
could not have quarrelled with the Grahams? Then being very
curious--like the majority of stupid people--she sat obstinately down
again. "I must have a word or two with Mr. and Mrs. Graham," she said.
"They have been so kind. But don't you wait, Laura, unless you like.
I dare say you have other things to do."
"Oh no, I am not busy this morning: besides, it is too late to do
anything now before lunch." And she also sat down again.
The Grahams came up and immediately began to explain in subdued tones
about Mr. Graham's sore throat, which was so bad on the day of the
funeral that his wife absolutely threatened to lock the front door if
he attempted to attend. It was equally unfortunate that one of Mrs.
Graham's prostrating sick headaches obliged her husband to forbid her
paying that last token of respect and affection to dear Miss Ethel.
Mrs. Bradford murmured a vague reply, wiping her eyes, and saying that
the cross of early chrysanthemums was very beautiful--it was nice of
them to remember that poor Ethel liked chrysanthemums. Then after a
pause she mentioned the delicious fruit and potted meats which the
Grahams had sent her almost daily, for indeed they were very kind when
it did not hurt them.
Laura said little, but the occasion was not one for discussing her
affairs, so that denoted nothing; and very soon the Grahams went off,
without satisfying Mrs. Bradford's curiosity in any way.
* * * * * *
Mrs. Bradford's legs retained the same inability to do anything their
owner did not wish as had distinguished them during Miss Ethel's
lifetime, so towards sunset she sent Caroline to do various errands in
the village.
As the girl went along, she had on her right the old grey tower of the
church standing with a sort of noble repose against the red and orange
sunset. It made her think of Miss Ethel, laid to rest in the old
churchyard in the middle of the village--among friends and neighbours
of her youth. The churchyard was now only used by those who had the
old family graves there, so that Caroline had never been at a funeral
exactly like Miss Ethel's before, and those in the new cemetery had not
made the same impression on her mind.
But her attention was diverted now by the sight of the carrier with his
trolley, who had brought her box to the Cottage that day in the spring.
And as she began to run after him, her flying figure was caught here
and there by the glow of the sunset, giving her a slight momentary
resemblance to the nymph on fire that Wilson's fancy had once seen in
her.
Wilson, himself, may even have been reminded of this as he stood
looking after her; but he turned up the road leading to Laura Temple's,
and Caroline remained unaware that he had been anywhere near.
She had a long run before the carrier heard her calling: then he pulled
up his old white horse and waited at the top of the little hill, the
air about them seeming almost iridescent with the gold and red of the
autumn sunset shining through it.
"Here you are again, then," he said as she came up. "Where do you want
your box moved to this time? You see, you stopped on at the Cottage,
after all."
"I'm not going yet--not for another fortnight." She was panting
slightly, a little out of breath. "I want you to take a typewriter for
me to Mr. Wilson's lodgings. It's one he left at the Cottage for me to
practise on."
"All right. I'll call round to-morrow," he replied.
"Oh! I do wish you could come to-night," she said. "I particularly
want it to go back to-night."
The carrier laughed good-naturedly, looking down at her. "Oh, that's
it, is it?" he said. "Well, you're in the right on it. One lass is
enough for any man. Gee-up." And he shouted back as he went: "I'll
call round in an hour or so."