'Go on, Isabel, it's perfect.'
'It's the most marvellous find.'
'Oh, do go on, Isabel!'
'God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness.'
'Oh! oh! oh!'
'Sh! sh! sh!'
And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed.
'You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book,' said Dennis firmly. 'I shall give it a whole chapter.'
'Oh, Isabel,' moaned Moira, 'that wonderful bit about holding you in his arms!'
'I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they pale before this.'
'Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,' said Bobby Kane.
But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked exhausted. 'No, not just now. Not just now,' she stammered.
And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the bed. 'How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar,' muttered Isabel. She pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! 'God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness.' William! Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain...
Presently from the garden below there came voices.
'Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!'
'Come, thou wife of William!'
'Call her once before you go, call once yet!'
Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be? 'I must make up my mind.' Oh, but how could there be any question? Of course she would stay here and write.
'Titania!' piped Moira.
'Isa-bel?'
No, it was too difficult. 'I'll—I'll go with them, and write to William later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write,' thought Isabel hurriedly.
And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs.
8. THE VOYAGE.
The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself.
Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too wanted her to hurry... Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream.
Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of smoke hanging over it, 'Mia-oo-oo-O-O!'
'First whistle,' said her father briefly, and at that moment they came in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say good-bye.
'There, mother, there's your luggage!' said Fenella's father, giving grandma another strapped-up sausage.
'Thank you, Frank.'
'And you've got your cabin tickets safe?'
'Yes, dear.'
'And your other tickets?'
Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips.
'That's right.'
He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired and sad. 'Mia-oo-oo-O-O!' The
