Part 53 (1/2)

”You're not angry with me, are you? How did you know I'd gone?”

”I think the house told me. Oh, here's the moor. How good to get to it out of that pit. Come quickly. Notya--”

”I can't come faster. Tell me what you said to him. Nothing I said was any good.”

”I managed him.”

”And I couldn't. Suppose he catches me again.”

”He won't. Can't you understand that he may not want you any more? Let us get home.”

”I'm doing my best. I wish I were a man. A woman can't have fun.”

”Fun!”

”Oh, you're so good! I meant it for fun, and now he'll come after me again. Of course he wants me. He's in love with me.”

”There's love and love,” Helen said.

”And if you subtract one from the other--I don't know what I'm saying--there may be nothing left. If George does that little sum in the morning--”

”I think it's done already.”

”I hope so. I'm miserable. I wish the sea would come up and wash me and make me forget. You're not holding me so lovingly as you did. In the kitchen you were sweet.”

”Is that better? I think the moor is like the sea. It's a great, clean bath to plunge into. And here's the garden. That's another bath, a little one, so dark and cold and peaceful. And the poplars. Soon there will be leaves on them.” She stopped with a thin cry. ”What has happened? I left the house in darkness, and look now!” Every window gave out light that fell in differing patterns on the gra.s.s. ”Oh! what is it?” For an instant she thought the whole night's work must be some evil fancy, this brilliance as well as the sordid horror at the farm, and then, as Miriam cried, ”Is it the house on fire?” the other rushed across the lawn, leaping the golden patches as though, indeed, they might have burned her.

Miriam tried to follow, but, weakness overcoming her, she sat down on the lawn. Half drowsily, she was interested in the windows, for their brightness promised gaiety within the house and she bent her ear expectantly for music. There ought to have been music, sweet and tinkling, and people dancing delicately, but the lights were not darkened by moving figures, and the only sound was Helen's voice anxiously calling her in.

Miriam was indifferent to the anxiety, and she did not want to rise: she was comfortable on the soft, damp earth, and the night had been so long that the morning must be near. If she stayed there, she would be spared the trouble of going to bed and getting up again, and when Helen called once more, she heard the voice as from a great way off, and answered sleepily, ”Yes, I'm coming,” but the next minute she was annoyed to find Helen standing over her.

”Why didn't you come in? It's Notya. She has put lights in every room.

She was afraid of the dark, she says. She couldn't find us. She has been talking--oh, talking. Come and let her see you.”

”I wish things wouldn't go round and round.”

”You must go to bed, but first you must let her see you. She thinks you are not coming back.”

”And I nearly didn't. I won't see her if she's ill.”

”You must. She isn't--green, or anything.”

”I'm ill, too. I'm giddy.”

”Oh, can't you do this to help me? Haven't I helped you?”

”Oh, yes, you have! I'll come, but help me up.” Her laughter bubbled out. ”I'm afraid you're having rather a busy night!”

Mildred Caniper was sitting on the edge of the bed. Swinging a foot, and with her curly hair hanging to her shoulders, she had a very youthful look.

”So she has come back,” she said. Her voice was small and secret. ”I thought she wouldn't. She is like Edith. Edith went. And I was glad.