Part 56 (2/2)
”That was because I wasn't dressed.”
Helen laughed rather weakly and for a long time.
”You're not really laughing!” Miriam cried. ”This house is horrible. You making that noise, and Notya upstairs, and that hideous nurse grinning, and George prowling about outside. I can't stay here.”
”Go to Brent Farm, then. You can tell John and stay there. Lily won't mind.”
”Shall I? John would be angry.”
Helen made no reply as she moved quietly and efficiently about the kitchen, preparing food, setting things on a tray, turning the linen, working quickly but with no sign of haste. The rain splattered on the gravel path outside and clicked sharply into some vessel which stood by the scullery door.
A voice came unhappily from the pale face blotted against the chair.
”Helen, what are you going to do about me?”
She turned in astonishment and stared at Miriam.
”You said we were to talk about it.”
”I know.” What held her silent was the realization that while she felt herself helpless, under the control of some omnipotent will, here was one who cried out to her as arbiter. It was strange and she wanted to laugh again but, refusing that easy comment, she came upon a thought which terrified and comforted her together. She was responsible for what she had done; Zebedee would know that, and he would have the right, if he had the heart, to blame her. A faint sound was caught in her throat and driven back. She had to be prepared for blame and for the anger which so endeared him, but the belief that she was not the plaything of malevolence gave her the dignity of courage.
”Helen,” said the voice again.
”Yes. I wrote to Uncle Alfred yesterday--this morning. I shouldn't think he could be here tomorrow, but the next day, if he comes--”
But blame or anger, how small they were in the face of this common gash--this hurt! She shut a door in her brain, the one which led into that chamber where all lovely things bloomed among the horrors. And Zebedee, as she had always told him, was just herself: they shared.
”Oh, you've done that? How wonderful! But--it's like running away.”
”I don't want you here.”
There was an exclamation and a protest.
”Only because I couldn't be happy about you.”
”Because of George? No, I don't see how I can stay here, but there's Notya.”
”You're no use, you see.”
”Oh--”
”If you can't even carry in that bed.”
”I'll try to go in,” she said, in a m.u.f.fled voice.
”I can ask the nurse. I don't want you to stay, but try,” she went on dispa.s.sionately, ”try not to be silly any more. I shan't always be there to--save you.”
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