"What the deuce is she after?" he muttered. He wondered whether, if she
happened to glance upwards, she would be able to see him. He stood away
a little from the window, but as in the safer position he could no
longer distinguish her he came again close to the glass. After all,
there could be no risk of her seeing him. And if she did see him,--the
fright would be hers, not his.
Having passed through the hedge, she stopped, bent down, leaning
backward and to one side, and lifted the hem of her skirt to examine it;
possibly it was torn; then she dropped it. By that black, tight skirt
and by something in her walk he knew she was Hilda; he could not
decipher her features. She moved towards the new house, very slowly, as
if she had emerged for an aimless nocturnal stroll. Strange and
disquieting creature! He peered as far as he could leftwards, to see
the west wall of Lane End House. In a window of the upper floor a light
burned. The family had doubtless gone to bed, or were going... And she
had wandered forth solitary and was trespassing in his garden. "Cheek!"
If ever he got an opportunity he should mysteriously tease her on the
subject of illegal night excursions! Yes, he should be very witty and
ironic. "Nothing but cheek!" He was confirmed in his hostility to her.
She had no charm, and yet the entire Orgreave family was apparently
infatuated about her. Her interruption on behalf of Victor Hugo seemed
to be savage. Girls ought not to use that ruthless tone. And her eyes
were hard, even cruel. She was less feminine than masculine. Her hair
was not like a girl's hair.
She still came on, until the projecting roof of the bay-window beneath
him hid her from sight. He would have opened his window and leaned out
to glimpse her, could he have done so without noise. Where was she? In
the garden porch? She did not reappear. She might be capable of
getting into the house! She might even then actually be getting into
the house! She was queer, incalculable. Supposing that she was in the
habit of surreptitiously visiting the house, and had found a key to fit
one of the doors, or supposing that she could push up a window,--she
would doubtless mount the stairs and trap him! Absurd, these
speculations; as absurd as a nightmare! But they influenced his
conduct. He felt himself forced to provide against the wildest hazards.
Abruptly he departed from the bedroom and descended the stairs,
stamping, clumping, with all possible noise; in addition he whistled.
This was to warn her to fly. He stopped in the hall until she had had
time to fly, and then he lit a match as a signal which surely no
carelessness could miss. He could have gone direct by the front door
into the street, so leaving her to her odd self; but, instead, he drew
back the slip-catch of the garden door and opened it, self-consciously
humming a tune.
She was within the porch. She turned deliberately to look at him. He
could feel his heart-beats. His cheeks burned, and yet he was chilled.
"Who's there?" he asked. But he did not succeed to his own satisfaction
in acting alarmed surprise.
"Me!" said Hilda, challengingly, rudely.
"Oh!" he murmured, at a loss. "Did you want me? Did any one want me?"
"Yes," she said. "I just wanted to ask you something," she paused. He
could not see her scowling, but it seemed to him that she must be. He
remembered that she had rather thick eyebrows, and that when she brought
them nearer together by a frown, they made almost one continuous line,
the effect of which was not attractive.
"Did you know I was in here?"
"Yes. That's my bedroom window over there--I've left the gas up--and I
saw you get through the hedge. So I came down. They'd all gone off to
bed except Tom, and I told him I was just going a walk in the garden for
a bit. They never worry me, you know. They let me alone. I knew you'd
got into the house, by the light."
"But I only struck a match a second ago," he protested.
"Excuse me," she said coldly; "I saw a light quite five minutes ago."
"Oh yes!" he apologised. "I remember. When I came up the cellar
steps."
"I dare say you think it's very queer of me," she continued.
"Not at all," he said quickly.
"Yes you do," she bitterly insisted. "But I want to know. Did you mean
it when you said--you know, at supper--that there's no virtue in
believing?"
"Did I say there was no virtue in believing?" he stammeringly demanded.
"Of course you did!" she remonstrated. "Do you mean to say you can say
a thing like that and then forget about it? If it's true, it's one of
the most wonderful things that were ever said. And that's why I wanted
to know if you meant it or whether you were only saying it because it
sounded clever. That's what they're always doing in that house, you
know, being clever!" Her tone was invariably harsh.
"Yes," he said simply, "I meant it. Why?"
"You did?" Her voice seemed to search for insincerity. "Well, thank
you. That's all. It may mean a new life to me. I'm always trying to
believe; always! Aren't you?"
"I don't know," he mumbled. "How do you mean?"
"Well--you know!" she said, as if impatiently smashing his pretence of
not understanding her. "But perhaps you do believe?"
He thought he detected scorn for a facile believer. "No," he said, "I
don't."
"And it doesn't worry you? Honestly? Don't be clever! I hate that!"
"No," he said.
"Don't you ever think about it?"
"No. Not often."
"Charlie does."
"Has he told you?" ("So she talks to the Sunday too!" he reflected.)
"Yes; but of course I quite see why it doesn't worry you--if you
honestly think there's no virtue in believing."
"Well," said Edwin. "_Is_ there?" The more he looked at it through her
eyes, the more wonderful profundities he discovered in that remark of
his, which at the time of uttering it had appeared to him a simple
platitude. It went exceedingly deep in many directions.
"I hope you are right," she replied. Her voice shook.
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