“God’s justice, tardy though it prove,
Rests never on the track
Until it reach delinquency.”
ROBERT BROWNING.
When Daphne went up to her room a thin, grey light was growing out of
the east. From her window the houses stood out in heavy, mysterious
shapes against the sky, the street lamps flared dimly, and far off in
the city the great tide of labour, gave morning witness, to its
intention of flooding the town. Daphne shivered and turned on the
electric light; she never could think much in the dark, and she wanted
to think more than anything in the world. In a few hours time she would
have to answer at the Board of Trustees as to whether she would sign on
or not, and she was not going to. Katherine would be hurt, and she would
have to say good-bye, then she would go to her uncle and tell him that
she meant to stay.
She would grow old there doing good in the parish; it would be very
dull, doing good seemed to be that, she thought; but then, wasn’t even
doing bad, dull, when you had to keep it up? In time her hair would turn
grey, and she would begin to call people “My dear”; her aunt always
called people “My dear.” Then Reggie would see that she was not a flirt,
but of course it didn’t matter in the least what Reggie saw, he had
behaved abominably, she would never speak to him again. Arthur would be
surprised, but his wife was very pretty, perhaps he would not be
surprised long. As for Philip, he had never really spoken, she would
write him a very nice little letter, and he would probably keep it, but
he would stick to his parish. All these thoughts passed like pictures
through her mind, and left her staring blankly before her, and repeating
word for word what Reggie had said.
Then she took up a pen and wrote to her uncle. “I want to come back to
you,” she wrote, “and live differently. I have taken an absolute
pleasure in getting my own way, and then have been proud of myself for
getting it. There is not a single thing in my life at this present
moment, which is not a self-indulgence or the result of one. Life has
brought me up sharp very often, and I have given up the accursed thing,
but I have found other ones just as much accursed. I have done good
things from bad motives, and when I have had good motives, I have
generally not done the things! I have been independent and it has not
succeeded, I have made my own discipline, and been careful that there
shouldn’t be thorns.
“Now I wish to put my life in your hands. I want to wake up and be
forgiven, and punished, and to begin again. Do you remember reading me
one night Rossetti’s ‘Landmark?’
“Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.”
“Let me return then, and show me what I must do. I must tell you, I have
not played the game fair. I have made some people very unhappy because I
have wanted to be liked, and I _still_ want to be liked, only not by
making people unhappy. That is a very terrible way, and I hope it will
hurt me horribly whenever I think about it. May I come? Daphne.”
Then she wrote a short note three times and tore it up; the fourth time
she let it stand.
“Dear Reggie,” she had written. “All that you said to-night was
perfectly true, and a great deal more that you might have said and
didn’t, that was true as well, and indeed, I am grateful to you, though
I was very angry at the time. I am going back to my uncle, and I do not
expect I shall ever see you again. But you will know that I think of you
most gratefully and wish you all good luck. Daphne Fordington.”
“And I won’t write to Philip at all,” she said, and that was very hard,
for she knew she could have written such a nice letter to Philip. Then
she undressed and went to bed. It was seven o’clock, and London was wide
awake now.
In Lady Middleton’s dressing-room London was very wide awake indeed. She
stood facing her husband, and he, with his hand on the door, was obliged
to stay.
“So _you_ sent that invitation,” she said at last in piercingly chilly
tones. “Who made you?”
“I don’t see why,” said her husband a little sulkily, “you think I had
to be _made_ to—it was only right.”
“Oh, right!” said Vera, with infinite scorn. “I should have thought you
would have had more sense than to make that excuse to me.” She repeated
the question. Sir Henry told her, and then wished he hadn’t; both of
these things were a habit with him. “Do you know that she is a very bad
woman?” his wife asked coldly.
“I know that she drinks,” he blurted out. Lady Middleton sat down, she
was very tired, and she had not counted on his knowledge of facts.
“Why do you wish to disgrace us?” she asked. “People will want to know
why Arthur Field lived alone, and where she was. The thing will get out.
I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Daphne and David were
bad enough, but this——” She paused speechless.
“She’s your own sister,” he threw out feebly.
“Oh, go to bed!” snapped his wife, “you were born a fool! At any rate in
the future leave things to me and don’t meddle.”
Sir Henry Middleton backed out of the door, he was very thankful indeed
that there was a door. Vera sat there for a long time, she looked grey
and old. By-and-bye a maid brought her tea. When she left her, Vera
leaned back in the chair and cried. She was very tired, and it was all
so unfortunate, and there were no societies, for that sort of thing.