forgetting to move, her bodily sensations all swamped by the tumult of
her mind. How dare he say such a thing! she said to herself; then she
burst forth, aloud: "I aren't going to have it. I _aren't_ going to
have it!"
But behind all that, she felt the iron touch of reality. Life was not
to be as she wanted it, just because she was herself--as she had felt
in the past. No matter how she might rebel, she'd _got_ to "have it."
The people in Thorhaven must pity her or laugh at her as they liked:
she could not prevent them from destroying the steps she had hewn with
such careful pains on the side of that steep hill which led to
everything she desired. With all her fun and easy friendliness she had
always kept herself a little "nice"--a little carefully
unsmirched--holding her head up among the other girls---- And now they
had the laugh of her. Now, she thought--standing there, digging her
finger-nails into her palms--now they'd giggle and talk about her as
they did about all those others who had been made fools of and left in
the lurch. And she could not get away from it all. Despite her fine
talk about never entering Uncle Creddle's house again, she had found
that it would be literally impossible to live in Flodmouth on what she
earned at first, and she would be obliged to lodge with Aunt Creddle,
going in and out by train every day.
Suddenly, the thought swept over her of how she had gloried in the idea
of travelling with the other girls who were off to places of business
in Flodmouth--all so neat, and nicely dressed, and so independent. Now
that was spoilt, like everything else.
Then the sudden hooting of a motor-bicycle caused her to start aside,
and Wilf careered past--cap correctly poised, slim young body bent
forward. The next moment, he swerved round with a dash and swirl,
shouting out:
"Hello! hello! You'll be getting run down one of these days!" But it
was to show his new motor-bicycle, and what he had gained by her
"turning him down," as well as what she had lost.
Caroline was conscious of his triumphant attitude, though she only felt
a sort of incredulous wonder that she could ever have thought of him as
a lover. It seemed, somehow, to have happened in another life, so far
off it appeared from her present experiences.
After that two girls whom she knew passed, laughing and talking
together on the other side of the road, and she immediately felt sure
that they were making fun of her. No doubt it was all over the town
that she had been "carrying on" with Wilson--a man just about to be
married to Miss Temple, whom everybody respected and liked. There
would be no pity there--only contempt. So she called out "good night"
and went on as fast as she could, fancying what the girls were saying
to each other. "Well, _I_ wouldn't have done such a thing! And I
never reckoned to be as particular as Carrie Raby. But pride will have
a fall----"
She could almost hear them say it as she hurried on, her ambition as
well as her love so deeply wounded that she could scarcely bear
herself. Revolting, fighting--having to find out with exasperated
agony like every one else that those who fight against destiny only
hurt themselves. But as she passed the short street leading to the
promenade a strong current of sea-air blew down it and she turned her
hot face towards the breeze, looking up towards the pay-box which stood
silent and deserted in the fading light. It took on for her now that
strange quality which belongs to places where we have felt a great
deal--as if the walls had absorbed some of the currents of emotion
which had been given out there. She both loved the little wooden
erection, and longed never to see it again. Beyond it, the Flamborough
lights swung out across the sea: white--white--red. How unhappy life
was! And contempt did not kill love, as she had always understood from
the novels in the pretty paper covers which she liked to read so much.
It had killed trust; but the ache in her went on just the same, even
though Godfrey had been threatened by Uncle Creddle with a big stick,
and had shown such a cowardly anxiety to escape a row.
She drew in deep breaths of the salt air--cold, invigorating as it
always was here after sunset on the warmest days; and all her mind was
bent on despising him as he deserved. She tried to put her contempt
into words, so as to make it more real. "He's no good. I'm well rid
of him. I wouldn't have anything to do with him now, not if he were to
crawl after me on his hands and knees from here to Flamborough."
But the silence of the evening gave back an answer which she was
obliged to hear in her heart; and she told herself, though with less
certainty: "I _won't_ care; I _will_ end by not caring. He's not worth
it."
But at last she did manage to flick the raw place until she was really
bitter against him. For the sudden thought came to her that he dare
not have behaved to a girl of his own sort in the same way as he had
done to her. It was because he looked down on her that he could do it.
Then she saw the two girls coming her way down the road again, and
hurried up the side street in order to escape them. But they followed,
evidently going to the promenade, so she turned down to the shore where
she was certain of being alone at this season and this hour. As she
went along, a most vivid sense of this waste of her youth's bright
happiness came across her. "I _will_ forget him! I aren't _going_ to
be made miserable just by falling in love," she said to herself, half
sobbing--a little figure running along through the twilight by the edge
of the sea like a leaf driven by the wind, flinging defiance at the god
of love whom no change can displace.
_Chapter XXII_
_Morning_
It was two days later, and Caroline was going down to cash a cheque for
Mrs. Bradford. There had been a slight touch of frost in the night,
and the atmosphere was so rarified this morning that every object
seemed to meet the eye with equal distinctness--with the effect,
somehow, of a Dutch painting. A little black dog jumping up excitedly
outside the fishmonger's, a woman in the doorway of the little toy-shop
taking down a bundle of wooden spades, a red-faced farmer getting out
of his trap at the bank--all looked equally clear, lacking the usual
hazy effect of the damp air. It was partly for this reason, perhaps,
that Caroline felt as if everybody were pressing round her, and trying
to read her thoughts. Though the toy-shop woman called out a pleasant
"good morning," after her habit, Caroline thought she peered curiously
from behind her grove of spades, and that she was no doubt wondering
what it felt like to be made the "talk of the place"--especially by a
gentleman who allowed stout, middle-aged Mr. Creddle to threaten
horse-whipping with impunity. Then in going past the fish-shop, the
very cod seemed to turn a contemptuous, lack-lustre eye upon her, as if
they also said to each other: "There goes the girl who was made a fool
of by a man who never really meant to marry her."
But it was the worst when she caught sight of the hoarding on the
little Picture Hall. For suddenly the phrase which she had seen there
on the film flashed across her mind with such vividness that it seemed
to be written in dancing, bright letters across the sunshiny street: "I
swear I want to marry you."
She felt dizzy, then it passed. It was true enough, of course. Men
did always say that, as Aunt Creddle had told her. She was only one of
the millions of silly girls so easily deceived. And she went down the
street, feeling that from every eye streamed out a baleful ray which
reached and hurt the sore place in her heart.
At last she came to the bank; and the farmer was there at the counter,
pushing his notes across grudgingly--as does the man of all nations who
has wrung his hard living out of the soil. "I hate these no-ates," he
was saying. "They do-an't seem like money. But I doubt they'll last
my da-ay."
His drawl seemed to go in and out of Caroline's thoughts, soothing her
while she waited; then she heard a door open beyond the counter and saw
Laura come forth, attended by the bank-manager, and wearing a jaded,
excited look, as if she had been through a difficult interview in which
she had at last come off triumphant. On catching sight of Caroline she
flushed deeply, hesitating for a second, then coming forward with hand
outstretched. "Oh, I was wanting to see you, Miss Raby."
Caroline wondered why Laura should look like that on unexpectedly
meeting her, if this were so; but the farmer went out and his place at
the counter was now clear. Laura, however, followed her, saying in a
low tone: "Is Mrs. Bradford at home this morning?"
"No," said Caroline, "she has gone to see Mrs. Graham."
"Ah, I thought so." She paused. "Are you going straight home?"
"Yes, at least, I have only one other errand," said Caroline. With
that she turned to the man behind the counter who was waiting to
transact her business, and Laura went out of the bank.
Caroline walked home, thinking once or twice about the incident, for
Laura's manner seemed odd if she only wanted to know whether Mrs.
Bradford were at home or not. Then about an hour later, when she was
near a front window, she chanced to see Laura coming up the drive. So
going to the door; she said at once: "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Bradford has
not come in yet. Do you care to leave a message?"
As Laura stood there hesitating, that odd mixture of maturity and a
sort of girlish angularity in her appearance became unusually marked.
"No--no message. I--I think I will just come in."
"But I am afraid Mrs. Bradford may be some time," said Caroline.
Laura looked at her as if seeking something in her face, then repeated
awkwardly: "Oh! I think I will just come in."
So Caroline led the way to the sitting-room, but just as she was about
to go, Laura said quickly: "I suppose you like the idea of working at
an office?"
"Oh yes; I think it will be all right, thank you," said Caroline,
moving on towards the door all the time. She did not want to stay in
the same room with this girl who was to marry Godfrey. Let them marry
and be happy, so far as she was concerned; but she did not want to have
anything to do with either of them again.
Then she went through the door, but before she was across the hall she
heard Laura's voice raised on a sort of high, breathless note calling
after her: "Don't--don't go, yet. I--we so seldom have a chat.
This--this must have been a most trying time for you."
Caroline went back and stood just within the door, her small face pale
and rather severe. What did this girl want of her? For she could see
that there was something behind those halting words which Laura felt
either afraid or ashamed to say. She would not help by a single word.
No, not though the kind brown eyes began to distress her a little, like
those of a dog with a hurt paw.
"I suppose office work is really what you like best?" said Laura
nervously. "You think you will really enjoy it? You"--she drew a
breath and plunged, as it were--"you have no idea of getting married at
present?"
"No," said Caroline, speaking with fair composure, though her own
nerves began to quiver and she breathed rather quickly. For this was
what Laura had come for, then! She had heard tales and wanted to find
out if they were true.
Well--let her! For one second a great temptation assailed Caroline.
She stood there in the doorway, with the power of happiness or
unhappiness in her hands, knowing perfectly well that she had only to
tell the actual, unvarnished truth as it had actually happened for
Godfrey's chance of a rich wife, and Laura's chance of a probably
successful marriage to vanish in less time than you could open and shut
the door.
But the next moment it was all over. She knew, with a just pride, that
she could never do a mean trick like that: it was not in her. When the
room, which had gone a little dim, grew clear again, she heard herself
continuing, as if it were somebody else: "I'm sure I shall enjoy being
on my own. I'd rather keep myself than be dependent on any man. You
can do as you like. It's better than getting married."
"But nothing is better than marriage with the right man," said Laura.
She was still looking intently at Caroline; still seeming all the time
to have something behind her words which hovered but remained unspoken.
Then, suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Caroline looked away, perplexed and troubled. "I'm afraid Mrs.
Bradford may not be in for some time."
Laura rose in a hesitating fashion. "Do you think so? Well, I suppose
I had better go. Mrs. Bradford will be glad when the sale is over.
She will be happier in a boarding-house at Scarborough."
They were at the front door now; and to avoid looking at each other
they both glanced at the man who was wheeling a barrow-load of building
implements in from the field across the place where the privet hedge
used to be.
"I suppose that is for the improvements to the Cottage?" said Laura,
who seemed as if she could not go and yet did not really want to stay.
"Yes. They begin altering the outside buildings before the sale," said
Caroline; but all the time she was asking within herself: "What is it?
What is it?"
Again they looked at the man, who was now trudging back over the
newly-laid sods.
"Poor Miss Ethel!" said Laura. "She would not have liked that, would
she?"
Caroline shook her head, not speaking--it was all so curiously far off
from what they were both thinking about that words only seemed to echo
from a distance. "There have to be changes," she said at last, growing
afraid of the pause lest it should imply too much.
"Well, Miss Ethel always hated change," said Laura. Then her
expression began to alter curiously under Caroline's eyes--becoming
charged, as it were, with an inner radiance that shone right through
the outer dullness, or embarrassment, or sadness--whatever there might
be. "At any rate, she has gone where things are certain."
Caroline's heart beat fast with the sudden impact of discovery. Laura,
too, then! They were both just like people hanging on to a spar in a
rough sea and hoping to be thrown on shore at last. That was what life
was, even when you were going to be married to the man of your choice.
But the expression of Laura's face--or was it that thought of a rough
sea?--had in some way brought back that time in the pay-box after Miss
Ethel's death, when Caroline herself had looked up at the blue sky
breaking through the grey. Once more she tried to grope across the
barrier between the seen and the unseen.
What was there after all? Then a line of one of those Sunday-school
hymns floated across her mind--"Oh, Thou that changest not"--And the
thought of Miss Ethel on the stairs with that heavy pail in her hand.
But the thoughts passed so quickly that Laura had not noticed the
pause. "I like to fancy Miss Ethel in a place where things don't
change. It makes you think, when somebody you know goes----" And
Caroline saw Laura felt the same; was drawn more closely in touch with
this eternity to which Miss Ethel had just gone over.
Then a man over in the field shouted loudly to his mate. Both girls
glanced, half startled, in that direction, and when they looked at each
other again the mental atmosphere had quite altered.
"Well, I must be going," said Laura.
But it was still so evident she had left something unsaid, that
Caroline remained half-consciously expectant in the doorway. And a few
steps down the drive Laura did suddenly stop short, pause a moment and
return with quick, nervous steps. "Oh, by the way, I suppose you won't
know that my engagement with Mr. Wilson is broken off?"
For a moment--an age--Caroline's throat seemed to dry up, and she felt
like a person in a nightmare struggling to make a sound which will not
come. Then, out of all the turmoil of questions, fears, emotions that
Laura's words had caused to seethe within her, she was only able to
bring to the surface: "I--I didn't know."
"No?" Laura paused. "Well, you'll tell Mrs. Bradford I have been----"
And she hurried away down the drive; but she had not yet lost that air
of having left something unsaid which she had come on purpose to say.
Caroline could see her near the gate, then paused a moment as at the
approach of voices; and the next minute Mr. and Mrs. Graham came in,
accompanying Mrs. Bradford. Their attitudes were most plainly visible
to Caroline in the doorway, though she could not hear what was said;
Mrs. Bradford solidly engrossed in her own importance as a mourner--Mr.
Graham bending forward to speak to Laura, conciliatory, voluble; and
Laura herself unresponsive.
Caroline gave a last look at them before going indoors to take the
potatoes from the fire; and as she did so, she experienced one of those
sudden, blindingly clear moments of intuition common to almost every
one, in which the processes of fact, argument, reason are all skipped,
and the knowledge is there, full blown. She knew perfectly well that
Mr. and Mrs. Graham had felt it their solemn duty to inform Laura--with
the best intentions--of what was being said about Godfrey Wilson and
the girl on the promenade.
But before she had time to turn away the group dissolved, Laura going
on alone, while Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Graham came up the drive. The
picture bit like acid into her mind. The three coming up the path; the
clear sky; the man with the barrow wheeling cement over the forlorn
dismantled part of the garden where the privet hedge had been.
But in the kitchen, while she was taking the potatoes from the steamer,
her face suddenly flushed crimson. "I aren't going to be frightened,"
she murmured to herself. "I aren't going to care what anybody says.
She would never break off her engagement because of a bit of scandal.
She's not that sort. They'll be married, all right."
Beneath her defiance, however, Caroline was terribly afraid. She
sub-consciously so dreaded the agony she must endure if he did come
after her again and she had to send him away. For that was what she
would do. Never for one second did she waver in her determination to
have no more to do with a man who could behave as he had done. She
couldn't help loving him, but she could help trusting him with her life.
Mrs. Bradford appeared, black and bulky in the kitchen doorway. "Oh,
Caroline----" And her voice, though heavy and rather husky, put the
same immeasurable distance between Caroline and every Wilson in the
world as Miss Ethel's clear tones, speaking the same words, had always
done. "I am expecting Mr. Wilson on business after tea. Will you show
him into the breakfast-room if you have not gone out when he comes?"
Caroline murmured acquiescence, angry to feel herself blushing; and
when she looked up Mrs. Bradford's little eyes were fixed on her with
the insatiable curiosity of the dull; so she looked steadily down again
at the bowl of potatoes. After a pause that seemed very long, she
heard the pad-pad-pad of a heavy, elderly woman's walk sounding along
the passage.
Mrs. Bradford, waiting for her lunch, also looked at the wheel-marks
left by the passing of the workman's barrow over the place where the
privet hedge used to be. She might not like it, but she was without
that fiery hatred of change which did actually release Miss Ethel's
spirit for its escape to certainty.
_Chapter XXIII_
_On the Shore_
Mrs. Bradford was timid about being alone in the house after sunset
since her sister's death, so Caroline usually went out between tea and
early supper. On this occasion she hurried off directly tea was over,
in her anxiety to avoid a possible meeting with Godfrey. She did not
even wait to go upstairs and change her dress, but kept on the old
blouse and skirt she had been wearing beneath her overall, put on an
old garden hat and ran down the drive, fearing all the time to hear
Mrs. Bradford calling from the doorway.
However, she reached the road in safety, thankful that there was now no
chance of being obliged to usher in Godfrey with Mrs. Bradford's dull
rather malicious gaze fixed on her. But even while she waited a
second, out of breath, she caught sight of his figure coming along the
road from the town, and hurried on again towards the cliff top. There
was the bench on which she had sat that moonlight night with Godfrey,
when it seemed to her that they could love each other for ever just the
same, no matter what might divide them. She had been filled then with
the exultation which is so difficult to distinguish at the time from
happiness--which seems so independent of human accident--a joy never to
be assailed by common experience.
But all that had gone. Now she was going down the rough, muddy path on
the side of the clay cliff--slipping, making her shoes and skirt dirty,
grasping at the wiry grass as she slipped and not caring--simply
because she wanted to escape any chance of meeting the same man who had
inspired those wonderful emotions. The contrast seemed to hit a blow
on her heart, even though she was not going to let it hurt her any
more. But at last she reached the bottom, and stood for a moment to
rest.
The sea, heaving with a strong ground-swell, reflected the pale blue of
the sky in millions of pools of light on the dun-coloured surface. She
was not conscious of looking at it, but she had a feeling of freshness
and consolation--of freedom from herself. The truth was that, without
knowing it, she had made a friend of the sea. She had done so during
all those hours in the pay-box on the promenade when she endured that
hard spiritual experience which turns people from children into men and
women--and the sea remains faithful.
After resting a moment or two she walked on, her path skirting the wet
sea-weed which showed that there had been heavy weather outside the
bay. The brown streamers had blue lights on them like the sea and the
sand was firm and hard. A thick froth churned up from the deeps rested
among the sea-weed, or blew along the shore in front of her before the
south-easterly wind.
She inhaled the smell of fresh sea-weed--not exactly noticing it, but
with her senses influenced by it, as a person's may be by the heavy
scent of roses on a June evening. Less than ever was she going to give
in because she had to do without love. There were plenty of things in
life besides love----
Then, as if in answer to that defiance, she saw part of a man's shadow
thrown by the westering sun on the sand before her. She swerved sharp
round--not startled--not afraid; but filled with an extraordinary fury
against Godfrey which may have been partly caused by these emotions.
"How dare you come creeping up after me on the sand like that?" she
said. "Which way are you going? Tell me, and then I'll go the other."
He looked down at her with amusement and ardour in his glance; but all
the same he bore the marks of some storm only just over in the strained
lines of his face, and in the marks of sleeplessness under his eyes.
"You won't get rid of me so easily as that," he said. "I have come
here to talk things out with you, and I mean to do it."
She turned back towards the promenade. "Of course, I can't prevent you
walking with me if you will," she answered. But it was because she
felt that her curiosity might betray her that she desperately slammed
the door of opportunity in his face by adding: "I suppose you know you
are safe here to worry me as much as you like. You won't come across
Uncle Creddle on the sands."
"Your uncle----" He was rather thick-skinned and flushed seldom, but
he did so now, growing crimson to the edge of the cap pulled down over
his forehead. "Oh! I see. So you actually believed I was afraid.
Turn round!" He took her arm and made her face him. "Now! Do I look
as if I should be afraid to fight old Creddle?" She obstinately
refused to answer, and he went on, still holding her: "You know I
should not. I was thinking of you, and you only. Do you realize what
people say about a girl when her nearest male relative breaks, or even
tries to break a big stick over her lover's back? Well, I wasn't going
to have anything of that sort said about you, Carrie."
"You were very thoughtful about my reputation all of a sudden," said
Caroline. She paused, but the words had to come. "It was not because
you wanted to keep any talk from getting to Miss Laura's ears, I
suppose?"