IV

On the following Sunday the people of Blackstable enjoyed an emotion; as

Miss Reed said,--

'It was worth going to church this morning, even for a dissenter.'

The vicar was preaching, and the congregation paid a very languid

attention, but suddenly a curious little sound went through the

church--one of those scarcely perceptible noises which no comparison can

explain; it was a quick attraction of all eyes, an arousing of somnolent

intelligences, a slight, quick drawing-in of the breath. The listeners

had heeded very indifferently Mr Gray's admonitions to brotherly love

and charity as matters which did not concern them other than

abstractedly; but quite suddenly they had realised that he was bringing

his discourse round to the subject of Daisy Griffith, and they pricked

up both ears. They saw it coming directly along the highways of Vanity

and Luxuriousness; and everyone became intensely wide awake.

'And we have in all our minds,' he said at last, 'the terrible fall

which has almost broken the hearts of sorrowing parents and brought

bitter grief--bitter grief and shame to all of us.'...

He went on hinting at the scandal in the manner of the personal columns

in newspapers, and drawing a number of obvious morals. The Griffith

family were sitting in their pew well in view of the congregation; and

losing even the shadow of decency, the people turned round and stared at

them, ghoul-like.... Robert Griffith sat in the corner with his head

bent down, huddled up, his rough face speaking in all its lines the

terrible humiliation; his hair was all dishevelled. He was not more than

fifty, and he looked an old man. But Mrs Griffith sat next him, very

erect, not leaning against the back, with her head well up, her mouth

firmly closed, and she looked straight in front of her, her little eyes

sparkling, as if she had not an idea that a hundred people were staring

at her. In the other corner was George, very white, looking up at the

roof in simulation of indifference. Suddenly a sob came from the

Griffiths' pew, and people saw that the father had broken down; he

seemed to forget where he was, and he cried as if indeed his heart were

broken. The great tears ran down his cheeks in the sight of all--the

painful tears of men; he had not even the courage to hide his face in

his hands. Still Mrs Griffith made no motion, she never gave a sign that

she heard her husband's agony; but two little red spots appeared angrily

on her cheek bones, and perhaps she compressed her lips a little more

tightly....

V

Six months passed. One evening, when Mr Griffith was standing at the

door after work, smoking his pipe, the postman handed him a letter. He

changed colour and his hand shook when he recognised the handwriting. He

turned quickly into the house.

'A letter from Daisy,' he said. They had not replied to her first

letter, and since then had heard nothing.

'Give it me,' said his wife.

He drew it quickly towards him, with an instinctive gesture of

retention.

'It's addressed to me.'

'Well, then, you'd better open it.'

He looked up at his wife; he wanted to take the letter away and read it

alone, but her eyes were upon him, compelling him there and then to open

it.

'She wants to come back,' he said in a broken voice.

Mrs Griffith snatched the letter from him.

'That means he's left her,' she said.

The letter was all incoherent, nearly incomprehensible, covered with

blots, every other word scratched out. One could see that the girl was

quite distraught, and Mrs Griffith's keen eyes saw the trace of tears on

the paper.... It was a long, bitter cry of repentance. She begged them

to take her back, repeating again and again the cry of penitence,

piteously beseeching them to forgive her.

'I'll go and write to her,' said Mr Griffith.

'Write what?'

'Why--that it's all right and she isn't to worry; and we want her back,

and that I'll go up and fetch her.'

Mrs Griffith placed herself between him and the door.

'What d'you mean?' she cried. 'She's not coming back into my house.'

Mr Griffith started back.

'You don't want to leave her where she is! She says she'll kill

herself.'

'Yes, I believe that,' she replied scornfully; and then, gathering up

her anger, 'D'you mean to say you expect me to have her in the house

after what she's done? I tell you I won't. She's never coming in this

house again as long as I live; I'm an honest woman and she isn't. She's

a--' Mrs Griffith called her daughter the foulest name that can be

applied to her sex.

Mr Griffith stood indecisively before his wife.

'But think what a state she's in, mother. She was crying when she wrote

the letter.'

'Let her cry; she'll have to cry a lot more before she's done. And it

serves her right; and it serves you right. She'll have to go through a

good deal more than that before God forgives her, I can tell you.'

'Perhaps she's starving.'

'Let her starve, for all I care. She's dead to us; I've told everyone in

Blackstable that I haven't got a daughter now, and if she came on her

bended knees before me I'd spit on her.'

George had come in and listened to the conversation.

'Think what people would say, father,' he said now; 'as it is, it's

jolly awkward, I can tell you. No one would speak to us if she was back

again. It's not as if people didn't know; everyone in Blackstable knows

what she's been up to.'

'And what about George?' put in Mrs Griffith. 'D'you think the Polletts

would stand it?' George was engaged to Edith Pollett.

'She'd be quite capable of breaking it off if Daisy came back,' said

George. 'She's said as much.'

'Quite right too!' cried his mother. 'And I'm not going to be like Mrs

Jay with Lottie. Everyone knows about Lottie's goings-on, and you can

see how people treat them--her and her mother. When Mrs Gray passes them

in the street she always goes on the other side. No, I've always held my

head high, and I'm always going to. I've never done anything to be

ashamed of as far as I know, and I'm not going to begin now. Everyone

knows it was no fault of mine what Daisy did, and all through I've

behaved so that no one should think the worse of me.'

Mr Griffith sank helplessly into a chair, the old habit of submission

asserted itself, and his weakness gave way as usual before his wife's

strong will. He had not the courage to oppose her.

'What shall I answer, then?' he asked.

'Answer? Nothing.'

'I must write something. She'll be waiting for the letter, and waiting

and waiting.'

'Let her wait.'