“No,” he said coldly, “I prefer to try to forget it.”
“Oh, well, if you can forget it,” she said, rising as the door bell rang, “I shan’t worry about it either,” but she was not so easy as she appeared. She fancied that Robert Corder’s way of forgetting things was to put them in some safe place until he wanted them, and she knew that while she watched for an obvious danger, another, unsuspected, might creep up behind her. The obvious danger was Mr. Pilgrim. He was not the only person who knew Hannah Mole outside her professional capacity, but he was close at hand and that very night she was to feel that he was coming nearer, to hear his feet as she had heard them, ten years ago, padding up her little garden path. She had been angry then, but amused because she had been happy: she was angrier now because that happiness was only a little cherished dust, and it would need all her skill and energy to keep it from being blown away by the indignant breath of the sinless. It seemed hard that she should not be allowed to keep it without fighting for it; it was so frail a possession that, in the turmoil, she might lose it, and in its frailty, if she had been given to pity of herself, she would have seen her tragedy. She had no memories which sustained her with their own strength; it was she who had to be tender with the weak. She could have faced the world with a glorious failure, but she must hide this one, which had ended meanly, and she was ten years older now and sometimes she was tired. She did not want to be sent roving again, just yet: she wished, as she had said, to make a good job of her undertaking, and the happiness of these people was becoming important to her.
When she opened the door to Doris, she looked at her sharply to see whether the course of her love was running smooth, and the sight of her face, rosy with the kisses of the grocer’s assistant, was a pleasant one.
“Good girl,” Hannah said. “It’s just striking ten. Have you had a nice walk?”
“I’ve been to see his mother, Miss,” Doris said proudly. “She was a bit stiff, but he says he thinks she’ll get used to me.”
“Well, there!” Hannah said in congratulation, and watched one happy person go up to bed.
The voices of Wilfrid and Ruth, who came in soon afterwards, sounded happy, too, and Ethel, following close on their heels, showed an excitement which roused Hannah’s misgivings. Something had happened on which she would raise expectations not to be fulfilled, and the joyousness meant future trouble, but not until she began her confidences, when Wilfrid and Ruth had gone to bed, did Hannah understand that the chief part of the trouble might be for herself.
Mr. Pilgrim had been to the Girls’ Club. The one in connection with his own chapel was ill-attended and badly managed and he had gone to see how Miss Corder managed hers. It appeared that he was delighted with everything, he had given the girls a little address, and he hoped Ethel would allow him to consult her again.
“So I must help him if I can, mustn’t I, Miss Mole?”
“Practical experience is what he wants.” Hannah said briskly. “Let him go to the club and watch you do it.”
“Yes,” Ethel said, a little doubtfully. “But you see, Patsy Withers is generally there and she’s so interfering. She wasn’t there tonight, or she would have made Mr. Pilgrim think she runs the Club. And she’s so silly with men. I thought I might ask him to tea one day.”
Hannah kept a silence which made Ethel anxious.
“Don’t you think I might do that, Miss Mole?”
“Well,” Hannah said, “you know what family teas are.”
“Yes,” Ethel agreed again.
“And your father and he would have so much to say to each other that I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to help him very much. And you wouldn’t be at your best.”
“How do you mean—my best?”
“You wouldn’t speak with the same authority in the bosom of your family.”
“Oh,” Ethel said, and she looked and sounded disappointed.
“But,” said Hannah quickly, easing her own conscience, “you mustn’t take my advice. You must do as you think best.”
“But I don’t know what that is!” Ethel cried. “I thought you’d help me. You know, Miss Mole, it’s dreadful, sometimes, not to have a mother.”
There were tears in her eyes and Hannah thought of Mrs. Corder, who trusted Miss Mole to do what she could. “Then I’ll tell you exactly what I think,” she said quietly. “Do nothing until he speaks to you about it again.”
“But, perhaps, he never will!”
“I know,” Hannah said, thinking now of all the women who waited for the words they would not hear. “But if he’s not in earnest about his work, it’s not for you to remind him.”
“Isn’t it? But that’s just one of the ways where women help.”
“Not at this stage of your acquaintance.”
“I feel as if I’ve known him for a long time. You do feel like that with some people, don’t you? He was so friendly tonight. And I was wondering if we should have a Christmas party, for Howard, you know.”
“You’ll have to speak to your father about that,” Hannah said.
She went very slowly up to bed and her feet felt heavy. It was no use running from Mr. Pilgrim: dodge and double as she might, he was bound to catch her in the end, but if he caught Ethel at the same time, the loss to one might be balanced by the gain to another, and that, after all, was the only way to reckon. The world would gain something from a happy Ethel—if such a man as Mr. Pilgrim could make her happy—and Hannah Mole would get something out of it, in spite of
