misunderstanding between himself and Miss Viner. In the interests of peace she had thought it best to follow him; but she hastily added that she did not wish to see Sophy, but only, if possible, to learn from her where Owen was. With these brief instructions Miss Painter had started out; but she was a woman of many occupations, and had given her visitor to understand that before returning she should have to call on a friend who had just arrived from Boston, and afterward despatch to another exiled compatriot a supply of cranberries and brandied peaches from the American grocery in the Champs Elysees.
Gradually, as the moments passed, Anna began to feel the reaction which, in moments of extreme nervous tension, follows on any effort of the will. She seemed to have gone as far as her courage would carry her, and she shrank more and more from the thought of Miss Painter’s return, since whatever information the latter brought would necessitate some fresh decision. What should she say to Owen if she found him? What could she say that should not betray the one thing she would give her life to hide from him? “Give her life”—how the phrase derided her! It was a gift she would not have bestowed on her worst enemy. She would not have had Sophy Viner live the hours she was living now… She tried again to look steadily and calmly at the picture that the image of the girl evoked. She had an idea that she ought to accustom herself to its contemplation. If life was like that, why the sooner one got used to it the better…But no! Life was not like that. Her adventure was a hideous accident. She dreaded above all the temptation to generalise from her own case, to doubt the high things she had lived by and seek a cheap solace in belittling what fate had refused her. There was such love as she had dreamed, and she meant to go on believing in it, and cherishing the thought that she was worthy of it. What had happened to her was grotesque and mean and miserable; but she herself was none of these things, and never, never would she make of herself the mock that fate had made of her…
She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow; but she kept on repeating to herself “By and bye that will come too.” Even now she was determined not to let his image be distorted by her suffering. As soon as she could, she would try to single out for remembrance the individual things she had liked in him before she had loved him altogether. No “spiritual exercise” devised by the discipline of piety could have been more torturing; but its very cruelty attracted her. She wanted to wear herself out with new pains…
XXXI
The sound of Miss Painter’s latch-key made her start. She was still a bundle of quivering fears to whom each coming moment seemed a menace.
There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in the hall; then Miss Painter’s vigorous hand was on the door.
Anna stood up as she came in. “You’ve found him?”
“I’ve found Sophy.”
“And Owen?—has she seen him? Is he here?”
“SHE’S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you.”
“Here—NOW?” Anna found no voice for more.
“She drove back with me,” Miss Painter continued in the tone of impartial narrative. “The cabman was impertinent. I’ve got his number.” She fumbled in a stout black reticule.
“Oh, I can’t—” broke from Anna; but she collected herself, remembering that to betray her unwillingness to see the girl was to risk revealing much more.
“She thought you might be too tired to see her: she wouldn’t come in till I’d found out.”
Anna drew a quick breath. An instant’s thought had told her that Sophy Viner would hardly have taken such a step unless something more important had happened. “Ask her to come, please,” she said.
Miss Painter, from the threshold, turned back to announce her intention of going immediately to the police station to report the cabman’s delinquency; then she passed out, and Sophy Viner entered.
The look in the girl’s face showed that she had indeed come unwillingly; yet she seemed animated by an eager resoluteness that made Anna ashamed of her tremors. For a moment they looked at each other in silence, as if the thoughts between them were packed too thick for speech; then Anna said, in a voice from which she strove to take the edge of hardness: “You know where Owen is, Miss Painter tells me.”
“Yes; that was my reason for asking you to see me.” Sophy spoke simply, without constraint or hesitation.
“I thought he’d promised you—” Anna interposed.
“He did; but he broke his promise. That’s what I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Thank you.” Anna went on tentatively: “He left Givre this morning without a word. I followed him because I was afraid…”
She broke off again and the girl took up her phrase. “You were afraid he’d guessed? He HAS…”
“What do you mean—guessed what?”
“That you know something he doesn’t…something that made you glad to have me go.”
“Oh—” Anna moaned. If she had wanted more pain she had it now. “He’s told you this?” she faltered.
“He hasn’t told me, because I haven’t seen him. I kept him off—I made Mrs. Farlow get rid of him. But he’s written me what he came to say; and that was it.”
“Oh, poor Owen!” broke from Anna. Through all the intricacies of her suffering she felt the separate pang of his.
“And I want to ask you,” the girl continued, “to let me see him; for of course,” she added in the same strange voice of energy, “I wouldn’t unless you consented.”
“To see him?” Anna tried to gather together her startled thoughts. “What use would it be? What could you tell him?”
“I want to tell him the truth,” said Sophy Viner.
The two women looked at each other, and a burning blush rose to Anna’s forehead. “I don’t understand,” she faltered.
