“Tired,” Hannah said. “I’ve walked for miles and miles.”
“And was the little house all right?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go inside.”
“But I thought that was what you went for.”
“So it was, but I had a good long walk instead.”
“Then I wish you’d come home earlier, if that was all you were doing. You managed Father about Howard,” and at these unexpected words, Hannah’s brain became normally active, “and you might have managed him about Ethel. But it would have been better if you hadn’t gone at all.”
“No doubt,” Hannah said sourly.
“For you, I mean. Because Father thinks you didn’t go to see your little house, and you haven’t seen it properly, have you? But still, if you meant to—”
Hannah heard this careful balancing of her deeds and intentions, this calculation of consequences, with a surprise which changed to indignation that Ruth should have them to make and then should offer them to her, and she said sharply. “Don’t talk like that! You can tell me about Ethel, if you like.”
It was seldom that Miss Mole spoke severely and there was always humour in her acidity, but there was none tonight and Ruth was silent for a few moments before she said, “I do hate people to talk after chapel, across the pews. I believe that’s what they go for.”
Hannah did not know a depth of misery from which she could not rise for the discussion of human impulses and motives. “No,” she said, “it’s the psychological what-d’you-call-it of the varnish. Something adhesive about it, I suppose. And then, with the bright blue firmament overhead, you must expect geniality.”
“I wish I could go to a beautiful church where nobody speaks until they get outside, and then not much. I can’t bear the way they ask each other to tea, and talk about who’s got influenza, and what the doctor said. They look so holy before the service, and, as soon as it’s over, they’re just like jack-in-the-boxes, nodding their heads and being so pleasant to each other.” Ruth paused. “So pleasant, but not really nice,” she said slowly. “And that’s how Ethel got into trouble.”
Hannah sat on the end of the bed, looking at the floor, and through the vision Ruth had conjured up of yellow pews and the matrons of the congregation in their Sunday best of amiability and garments, with roast beef and batter pudding waiting for them at home, she saw herself in a lane sunk between high banks topped by trees, and heard the whistle of a robin. If she had been standing on higher ground, if the robin had not whistled with that sweet detachment, she might not have run away, but she had felt that she was in a pit of her own making, and the robin gaily mocked her.
“You’re not listening, are you?” Ruth asked.
Hannah raised her head. “Yes. Ethel. Trouble. Who made it?”
“Barley sugar Patsy. And Mrs. Spenser-Smith made some more, but you won’t let me tell you about that. And it was partly Mr. Pilgrim’s fault, too, because somebody must have told Patsy that Ethel went to his chapel on Christmas Day, and I should think he’s the kind of man who would. And she let it out to Father, on purpose, when they were talking after the service, just so that Mrs. Spenser-Smith shouldn’t think she knows more about us than Patsy does. And then Mrs. Spenser-Smith had to let Patsy know that she knew something that Patsy didn’t, but they both talked to Father and pretended they weren’t talking to each other.”
“It sounds complicated.”
“It was worse when we got home. Father and Ethel had a quarrel and she’s been to Mr. Pilgrim’s chapel tonight and says she’ll go as often as she likes, and I don’t know whether she’s come back yet. So that’s the kind of day we’ve had. Do you think,” Ruth asked wistfully, “you could finish it up a bit better? It was so wonderful about Howard, but that’s always the way. The horrid things happen all of a sudden, and we were so peaceful, weren’t we?”
It seemed to Hannah that all her work was undone. Here was Ruth, as nervous and unhappy as she had been three months ago, Ethel had bolted from her stable in search of Mr. Pilgrim, and Lilla’s spite, too great for her caution, had shaken Robert Corder’s growing trust of his housekeeper in some way yet to be discovered. And Mr. Blenkinsop had had a fruitless errand and never again would he come to Miss Mole for help, or give it to her in asking for it. She had seen him for the last time, perhaps. He had been good and kind, but he must have despised her and compared her unfavourably with Mrs. Ridding who was self-controlled. And how was he explaining her behaviour? He had asked no questions, but they must be knocking at his brain and he would have to answer them. She was indifferent about his answers, for who was he to criticise? It was a sense of loss that oppressed her when she went down the stairs to do what she could for Ruth. She had lost Mr. Blenkinsop, she had lost the remnants of her romance and some of her self-esteem, and she did not know what else she was going to lose when she encountered Mr. Corder. She had, too, a sense of shame from which she had been running all day and she must turn and face it when she was alone, stare it out of countenance, until it dwindled and then vanished. This she had not been able to do while Mr. Blenkinsop was near. His pained solemnity and mute desire to help had confused her mind, for he was connected with the shame, his presence had increased it, and she longed for the
