'Yes. Good-bye.'
And she was gone, and had shut the door behind her before her monstrous
meaning dawned on him.
Then, when it did, he strode out of the room after her.
She was going up the stairs very slowly.
'Come down,' he said.
She went on as if she hadn't heard him.
'Come down. If you don't come down at once I'll fetch you.'
This, through all her wretchedness, through all her horror, for beating
in her ears were two words over and over again, _Lucy, Vera_--_Lucy,
Vera_ struck her as so absurd, the vision of herself, more naturally
nimble, going on up the stairs just out of Wemyss's reach, with him
heavily pursuing her, till among the attics at the top he couldn't but
run her to earth in a cistern, that she had great difficulty in not
spilling over into a ridiculous, hysterical laugh.
'Very well then,' she said, stopping and speaking in a low voice so that
Lucy shouldn't be disturbed by unusual sounds, 'I'll come down.' And
shining, quivering with indomitableness, she did.
She arrived at the bottom of the stairs where he was standing and faced
him. What was he going to do? Take her by the shoulders and turn her
out? Not a sign, not the smallest sign of distress or fear should he get
out of her. Fear of him in relation to herself was the last thing she
would condescend to feel, but fear for Lucy--for Lucy.... She could very
easily have cried out because of Lucy, entreated to be allowed to see
her sometimes, humbled herself, if she hadn't gripped hold of the
conviction of his delight if she broke down, of his delight at having
broken her down, at refusing. The thought froze her serene.
'You will now leave my house,' said Wemyss through his teeth.
'Without my hat, Everard?' she inquired mildly.
He didn't answer. He would gladly at that moment have killed her, for he
thought he saw she was laughing at him. Not openly. Her face was serious
and her voice polite; but he thought he saw she was laughing at him, and
beyond anything that could happen to him he hated being defied.
He walked to the front door, reached up and undid the top bolt, stooped
down and undid the bottom bolt, turned the key, took the chain off,
pulled the door open, and said, 'There now. Go. And let this be a lesson
to you.'
'I am glad to see,' said Miss Entwhistle, going out on to the steps with
dignity, and surveying the stars with detachment, 'that it is a fine
night.'
He shut and bolted and locked and chained her out, and as soon as he had
done, and she heard his footsteps going away, and her eyes were a little
accustomed to the darkness, she went round to the back entrance, rang
the bell, and asked the astonished tweeny, who presently appeared, to
send Lizzie to her; and when Lizzie came, also astonished, she asked her
to be so kind as to go up to her room and put her things in her bag and
bring her her hat and cloak and purse.
'I'll wait here in the garden,' said Miss Entwhistle, 'and it would be
most kind, Lizzie, if you were rather quick.'
Then, when she had got her belongings, and Lizzie had put her cloak
round her shoulders and tried to express, by smoothings and brushings of
it, her understanding and sympathy, for it was clear to Lizzie and to
all the servants that Miss Entwhistle was being turned out, she went
away; she went away past the silent house, through the white gate, up
through the darkness of the sunken oozy lane, out on to the road where
the stars gave light, across the bridge, into the village, along the
road to the station, to wait for whatever train should come.
She walked slower and slower.
She was extraordinarily tired.