Part 20 (1/2)
Septimus reflected. He had not thought of the pond's inadequate depth.
”You might have lain down at the bottom until it was all over,” he remarked in perfect seriousness. ”I once heard of a servant girl who drowned herself in a basin of water.”
Emmy turned impatiently and, walking on, waved him away; but he accompanied her mechanically.
”Oh, don't follow me,” she cried in a queer voice. ”Leave me alone, for G.o.d's sake. I'm not going to commit suicide. I wish to heaven I had the pluck.”
”But if you're not going to do that, why on earth are you here?”
”I'm taking a stroll before breakfast--just like yourself. Why am I here?
If you really want to know,” she added defiantly, ”I'm going to London--by the early train from Hensham--the milk train. See, I'm respectable. I have my luggage.” She swung something in the dark before him and he perceived that it was a handbag. ”Now are you satisfied? Or do you think I was going to take a handkerchief and a powder puff into the other world with me? I'm just simply going to London--nothing more.”
”But it's a seven-mile walk to Hensham.”
She made no reply, but quickened her pace. Septimus, in a whirl of doubt and puzzledom, walked by her side, still holding his cap in his hand. Even the intelligence of the local policeman would have connected her astounding appearance on the common with the announcement in the _Globe_. He took that for granted. But if she were not about to destroy herself, why this untimely flight to London? Why walk seven miles in wintry darkness when she could have caught a train at Ripstead (a mile away) a few hours later, in orthodox comfort? It was a mystery, a tragic and perplexing mystery.
They pa.s.sed by the pond in silence, crossed the common and reached the main road.
”I wish I knew what to do, Emmy,” he said at last. ”I hate forcing my company upon you, and yet I feel I should be doing wrong to leave you unprotected. You see, I should not be able to face Zora.”
”You had better face her as late as possible,” she replied quickly.
”Perhaps you had better walk to the station with me. Would you?”
”It would ease my mind.”
”All right. Only, for G.o.d's sake, don't chatter. I don't want you of all people to get on my nerves.”
”Let me carry your bag,” said Septimus, ”and you had better have my stick.”
The process of transference brought to his consciousness the fact of his bareheadedness. He put on his cap and they trudged along the road like gipsy man and wife, saying not a word to each other. For two miles they proceeded thus, sometimes in utter blackness when the road wound between thick oak plantations, sometimes in the lesser dimness of the open when it pa.s.sed by the rolling fields; and not a sign of human life disturbed the country stillness. Then they turned into the London road and pa.s.sed through a village. Lights were in the windows. One cottage door stood open. A shaft of light streamed across Emmy's face, and Septimus caught a glimpse of drawn and haggard misery. They went on for another mile. Now and then a laborer pa.s.sed them with an unsurprised greeting. A milkcart rattled by and then all was silence again. Gradually the stars lost brilliance.
All of a sudden, at the foot of a rise crowned by a cottage looming black against the sky, Emmy broke down and cast herself on a heap of stones by the side of the road, a helpless bundle of sobs and incoherent lamentations. She could bear it no longer. Why had he not spoken to her?
She could go no further. She wished she were dead. What was going to become of her? How could he walk by her side saying nothing, like a dumb jailer?
He had better go back to Nunsmere and leave her to die by the wayside. It was all she asked of Heaven.
”Oh, G.o.d have pity on me,” she moaned, and rocked herself to and fro.
Septimus stood for a time tongue-tied in acute distress. This was his first adventure in knight-errantry and he had served before neither as page nor squire. He would have given his head to say the unknown words that might comfort her. All he could do was to pat her on the shoulder in a futile way and bid her not to cry, which, as all the world knows, is the greatest encouragement to further shedding of tears a weeping woman can have. Emmy sobbed more bitterly than ever. Once more on that night of agonizing dubiety, what was to be done? He looked round desperately for guidance, and, as he looked, a light appeared in the window of the hilltop cottage.
”Perhaps,” said he, ”if I knock at the door up there, they can give you a gla.s.s of milk. Or a cup of tea,” he added, brightening with the glow of inspiration. ”Or they may be able to let you lie down for a while.”
But Emmy shook her head miserably. Milk, tea, rec.u.mbent luxury were as nothing to her. Neither poppy nor mandragora (or words to that effect) could give her ease again. And she couldn't walk four miles, and she must catch the morning train.
”If you'll tell me what I can do,” said Septimus, ”I'll do it.”
A creaky rumble was heard in the distance and presently they made out a cart coming slowly down the hill. Septimus had another brilliant idea.
”Let me put you into that and take you back to Nunsmere.”