The ladies sat down to tea. Eggs were ready to be boiled as soon as he
returned. Not having lunched, he would be hungry. But he did not
come. By dinner-time they grew anxious. They postponed the meal.
Dorcas came into the drawing-room periodically to report deterioration
of cooked viands. But they could not eat the meal alone. At last they
grew terrified lest some evil should have befallen him, and Miss
Widdington went in to the village and despatched Jan Pendered, and Joe
Gullow on his bicycle, in search. When she returned she found Miss
Ursula looking as if she had seen a ghost.
"Janet, that girl is living there."
"Where?"
"Polwern. He went there this morning."
Miss Widdington felt as if a cold hand had touched her heart, but she
knew that it behoved her as the elder to dismiss her sister's fears.
"You're talking nonsense, Ursula; he has never met her."
"How do we know?" urged Miss Ursula.
"I don't consider it delicate," replied Miss Widdington, "to discuss
the possibility."
They said no more, and went out and stood by the gate, waiting for
their messengers. The moon rose and silvered the sea, and the sea
breeze sprang up; the surf broke in a melancholy rhythm on the sands
beneath.
"It sounds like the 'Chanson Triste,'" said Miss Ursula. And before
them both rose the picture of the girl standing there like an Evil
Fairy while Andrea played.
At last Jan Pendered appeared on the cliff. The ladies went out to
meet him.
Then they learned what had happened.
In a dignified way they thanked Jan Pendered and gave him a shilling
for Joe Gullow, who had brought the news. They bade him good night in
clear, brave voices, and walked back very silent and upright through
the garden into the house. In the drawing-room they turned to each
other, and, their arms about each other's necks, they broke down
utterly.
The stranger woman had come and had taken him away from them. Youth
had flown magnetically to youth. They were left alone unheeded in the
dry lavender of their lives.
The moonlight streamed through the white-curtained casement window into
the white, spotless room. It shone on the two little white beds, on
the white garments, neatly folded on white chairs, on the
white-whiskered gentleman over the mantle-piece, and on the white faces
of the sisters. They slept little that night. Once Miss Widdington
spoke.
"Ursula, we must go to sleep and forget it all. We've been two old
fools."
Miss Ursula sobbed for answer. With the dawn came a certain quietude
of spirit. She rose, put on her dressing-gown, and, leaving her sister
asleep, stole out on tiptoe. The window was open and the curtains were
undrawn in the boy's empty room. She leaned on the sill and looked out
over the sea. Sooner or later, she knew, would come a letter of
explanation. She hoped Janet would not force her to read it. She no
longer wanted to know whence he came, whither he was going. It were
better for her, she thought, not to know. It were better for her to
cherish the most beautiful thing that had ever entered her life. For
all those years she had waited for the prince who never came; and he
had come at last out of fairyland, cast up by the sea. She had had
with him her brief season of tremulous happiness. If he had been
carried on, against his will, by the strange woman into the unknown
whence he had emerged, it was only the inevitable ending of such a
fairy tale.
Thus wisdom came to her from sea and sky, and made her strong. She
smiled through her tears, and she, the weaker, went forth for the first
time in her life to comfort and direct her sister.