Second String Part 41

The sun was on the lake that afternoon; the water looked peaceful, friendly, consoling. She sat down by the margin of it, and gave herself to memories. They came thick and fast, repeating themselves endlessly out of scant material--full of shame, full of woe; but also full of triumph, for she had been loved--at least for the time desired--by the man of her love and desire. Bought at a great cost? Yes. And never ought to have been bought? No. But now by no means to be forgotten.

She was alone; everything was still, in the calm of a September afternoon. She bowed her head to her hands and wept.

The Nun walked up the drive and saw the figure of a woman weeping.

Chapter XVIII.

PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS.

The Nun stopped, walked on a few paces, came to a stand again. She was visiting Nutley in pursuance of her plan of doing, if not that undiscoverable obvious, yet the more sensible thing--of preventing the "row" and, incidentally thereto, of finding out "what the woman really wanted."

Here was the woman. Whatever she might really want, apparently she was very far from having got it yet. She also looked very different from the adversary with whom Miss Flower had pictured herself as conducting a contest of wits--quite unlike the cool, wary, dexterous woman who had played her difficult game between the two men so finely, and who might be trusted to treat her opponent to a very pretty display of fencing.

The position seemed so changed that the Nun had thoughts of going back.

To discover a new, and what one has considered rather a hostile, acquaintance in tears is embarra.s.sing; and the acquaintance may well share the embarra.s.sment.

Fortunately Isobel stopped crying. She dried her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. The Nun advanced again. Isobel sat looking drearily over the lake.

"Dropped your sixpence in the pond, Miss Vintry?" the Nun asked.

Isobel turned round sharply.

"Because--I mean--you're not looking very cheerful."

Isobel's eyes hardened a little.

"Have you been there long?"

"I saw you were crying, if that's what you mean. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. People should cry in their own rooms if they want to keep it quiet."

"Oh, never mind; it doesn't matter whether you saw or not. Every woman is ent.i.tled to cry sometimes."

"I don't cry myself," observed the Nun, "but of course a great many girls do."

"I daresay I shouldn't cry if I were the great Miss Doris Flower."

The Nun gurgled. That ebullition could usually be brought about by any reference to the greatness of her position, not precisely because the position was not great--rather because it was funny that it should be.

She sat down beside Isobel.

"Please don't tell Vivien what you saw. I don't want her to know I've been crying. She's remorseful enough as it is about her marriage costing me my 'place.'"

"Was that what you were crying about?"

"It seems silly, doesn't it? But I've been happy here, and--and they've got fond of me. And finding a new one--well, it seems like plunging into this lake on a cold day. So quite suddenly I got terribly dreary."

"Well, you've had it out, haven't you?" suggested the Nun consolingly.

"Yes; and much good it's done to the situation!" laughed Isobel ruefully. "Oh, well, I suppose my feelings are the situation--at any rate there's no other."

"Then if you feel better, things are better too."

The Nun did not feel that she was getting on much with the secret object of her visit; she even felt the impulse to get on with it weakened. She was more inclined just to have a friendly, a consoling chat. However business was business. To get on she must take a little risk. She dug the earth on the edge of the pond with the point of her sunshade and observed carelessly, "If you very particularly wanted to stay at Nutley, I should have thought you might have the chance."

"Oh, are people gossiping about that? Poor Mr. Wellgood!"

"It was the observation of my own eyes," said the Nun sedately. "Oh, of course you can deny it if you like, though I don't see why you should--and I shan't believe you."

"If you've such confidence in your own eyes as that, Miss Flower, it would be wasting my breath to try to convince you. Have it your own way.

But even that would be--a new place. And I've told you that I'm afraid of new places."

"All plunges aren't into cold water," the Nun observed reflectively.

"That one would be colder, I think, than a quite strange plunge--away from Nutley."

"It's a great pity we're not built so as to fall in love conveniently.

It would have been so nice for you to stay--in the new place."

"I'm only letting you have it your own way, Miss Flower. I've admitted nothing."

"All that appears at present is that you needn't go if you don't like--and yet you cry about going!"

Isobel smiled.

"I might cry at leaving all my friends, especially at leaving Vivien, without wanting to stop--with Mr. Wellgood, as you insist on having it.

Is that comprehensible?"

"Well, I expect I've asked enough questions," said the cunning Nun, wondering hard how she could contrive to ask another--and get an answer to it. "But in Meriton there's nothing to do but gossip to and about one's friends. That's what makes it so jolly. Why, this wedding is simply occupation for all of us! What shall we do when it's over? Oh, well, I shall be gone, I suppose."

"And so shall I--so we needn't trouble about that."

The Nun was baffled. A strange impa.s.sivity seemed to fall on her companion the moment that the talk was of Harry's wedding. She tried once again.

"I do hope it'll turn out well."

Isobel offered no comment whatever. In truth she was not sure of herself; her agitation was too recent and had been too violent--it might return.

"I've known Harry for so long--and I like Miss Wellgood so much." She gave as interrogative a note as she could to her remarks--without asking direct questions. "I think he really is in love at last!" Surely, that ought to draw some question or remark--that "at last"? It drew nothing.

"But--well, we used to say one never knew with poor Harry!" ("Further than that," thought the Nun, "without telling tales, I cannot go.")

Isobel sat silent.

The result was meagre. Isobel would talk about Wellgood, evasively but without embarra.s.sment; references to Harry Belfield reduced her to silence. It was a little new light on the past; its bearing on the future, if any, was negative. She would not, it seemed, stay at Nutley with Wellgood. She would not talk of Harry. She had been crying. The crying was the satisfactory feature in the case.

The Nun rose.

"I must go in and see Miss Wellgood."