MRS. WILLETT sat in her small and over-furnished living-room in a state
of open-eyed amazement. Only five minutes before she had left the room
to look for a pair of shoes whose easiness was their sole reason for
survival, and as a last hope had looked under Cecilia’s bed, and
discovered the parcels. Three parcels all done up in brown paper and
ready for the post, addressed in Cecilia’s handwriting to:—
MRS. P. TRUEFITT,
Findlater’s Private Hotel,
Finsbury Circus, London.
She smoothed her cap-strings down with trembling hands and tried to
think. The autumn evening was closing in, but she made no attempt to
obtain a light. Her mind was becoming active, and the shadows aided
thought. At ten o’clock her daughter, returning from Tranquil Vale, was
surprised to find her still sitting in the dark.
“Why, haven’t you had any supper?” she inquired, lighting the gas.
“I didn’t want any,” said her mother, blinking at the sudden light.
Miss Willett turned and pulled down the blinds. Then she came back, and,
standing behind her mother’s chair, placed a hand upon her shoulder.
“It—it will be lonely for you when I’ve gone, mother,” she said,
smoothing the old lady’s lace collar.
“Gone?” repeated Mrs. Willett. “Gone? Why, has that woman consented to
go at last?”
Miss Willett shrank back. “No,” she said, trembling, “but—”
“You can’t marry till she does,” said Mrs. Willett, gripping the arms of
her chair. “Not with my consent, at any rate. Remember that. _I’m_ not
going to give way; she must.”
Miss Willett said “Yes, mother,” in a dutiful voice, and then, avoiding
her gaze, took a few biscuits from the sideboard.
“There’s a difference between strength of mind and obstinacy,” continued
Mrs. Willett. “It’s obstinacy with her—sheer obstinacy; and I am not
going to bow down to it—there’s no reason why I should.”
Miss Willett said “No, mother.”
“If other people like to bow down to her,” said Mrs. Willett, smoothing
her dress over her knees, “that’s their look-out. But she won’t get me
doing it.”
She went up to bed and lay awake half the night, and, rising late next
morning in consequence, took advantage of her daughter’s absence to peer
under the bed. The parcels had disappeared. She went downstairs, with
her faded but alert old eyes watching Cecilia’s every movement.
“When does Mr. Truefitt begin his holidays?” she inquired, at last.
Miss Willett, who had been glancing restlessly at the clock, started
violently.
“To—to—to-day,” she gasped.
Mrs. Willett said “Oh!”
“I—I was going out with him at eleven—for a little walk,” said her
daughter, nervously. “Just a stroll.”
Mrs. Willett nodded. “Do you good,” she said, slowly. “What are you
going to wear?”
Her daughter, still trembling, looked at her in surprise. “This,” she
said, touching her plain brown dress.
Mrs. Willett’s voice began to tremble. “It’s—it’s rather plain,” she
said. “I like my daughter to be nicely dressed, especially when she is
going out with her future husband. Go upstairs and put on your light
green.”
Miss Willett, paler than ever, gave a hasty and calculating glance at
the clock and disappeared.
“And your new hat,” Mrs. Willett called after her.
She looked at the clock too, and then, almost as excited as her
daughter, began to move restlessly about the room. Her hands shook, and
going up to the glass over the mantel-piece she removed her spectacles
and dabbed indignantly at her eyes. By the time Cecilia returned she was
sitting in her favourite chair, a picture of placid and indifferent old
age.
“That’s better,” she said, with an approving nod; “much better.”
She rose, and going up to her daughter rearranged her dress a little.
“You look very nice, dear,” she said, with a little cough. “Mr. Truefitt
ought to be proud of you. Good-by.”
Her daughter kissed her, and then, having got as far as the door, came
back and kissed her again. She made a second attempt to depart, and
then, conscience proving too much for her, uttered a stifled sob and
came back to her mother.
“Oh, I can’t,” she wailed; “I can’t.”
“You’ll be late,” said her mother, pushing her away. “Good-by.”
“I can’t,” sobbed Miss Willett; “I can’t do it. I’m—I’m deceiving——”
“Yes, yes,” said the old lady, hastily; “tell me another time. Good-by.”
She half led and half thrust her daughter to the door.
“But,” said the conscience-stricken Cecilia, “you don’t under—”
“A walk will do you good,” said her mother; “and don’t cry; try and look
your best.”
She managed to close the door on her, and her countenance cleared as she
heard her daughter open the hall door and pass out. Standing well back
in the room, she watched her to the gate, uttering a sharp exclamation
of annoyance as Cecilia, with a woebegone shake of the head, turned and
came up the path again. A loud tap at the window and a shake of the head
were necessary to drive her off.
Mrs. Willett gave her a few minutes’ start, and then, in a state of
extraordinary excitement, went upstairs and, with fingers trembling with
haste, put on her bonnet and cape.
“You’re not going out alone at this time o’ the morning, ma’am?” said
the old servant, as she came down again.
“Just as far as the corner, Martha,” said the old lady, craftily.
“I’d better come with you,” said the other.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Willett. “I’m quite strong this morning. Go
on with your stoves.”
She took up her stick and, opening the door, astonished Martha by her
nimbleness. At the gate she looked right and left, and for the first
time in her life felt that there were too many churches in Salthaven.
For several reasons, the chief being that Cecilia’s father lay in the
churchyard, she decided to try St. Peter’s first, and, having procured a
cab at the end of the road, instructed the cabman to drive to within
fifty yards of the building and wait for her.
The church was open, and a peep through the swing-doors showed her a
small group standing before the altar. With her hand on her side she
hobbled up the stone steps to the gallery, and, helping herself along by
the sides of the pews, entered the end one of them all and sank
exhausted on the cushions.
The service had just commenced, and the voice of the minister sounded
with unusual loudness in the empty church. Mr. Truefitt and Miss Willett
stood before him like culprits, Mr. Truefitt glancing round uneasily
several times as the service proceeded. Twice the old lavender-coloured
bonnet that was projecting over the side of the gallery drew back in
alarm, and twice its owner held her breath and rated herself sternly for
her venturesomeness. She did not look over again until she heard a
little clatter of steps proceeding to the vestry, and then, with a hasty
glance round, slipped out of the pew and made her way downstairs and out
of the church.
Her strength was nearly spent, but the cabman was on the watch, and,
driving up to the entrance, climbed down and bundled her into the cab.
The drive was all too short for her to compose herself as she would have
liked, and she met the accusatory glance of Martha with but little of
her old spirit.
“I went a little too far,” she said, feebly, as the servant helped her
to the door.
“What did I tell you?” demanded the other, and placing her in her chair
removed her bonnet and cape, and stood regarding her with sour
disapproval.
“I’m getting better,” said the old lady, stoutly. “I’m getting my
breath back again. I—I think I’ll have a glass of wine.”
“Yes, ’m,” said Martha, moving off. “The red-currant?”
“Red-currant!” said Mrs. Willett, sharply. “Red-currant! Certainly not.
The port.”
Martha disappeared, marvelling, to return a minute or two later with the
wine and a glass on a tray. Mrs. Willett filled her glass and,
whispering a toast to herself, half emptied it.
“Martha!” she said, looking round with a smile.
“Ma’am!”
“If you like to go and get a glass you can have a little drop yourself.”
She turned and took up her glass again, and, starting nervously, nearly
let it fall as a loud crash sounded outside. The bewildered Martha had
fallen downstairs.