She had not long for the indulgence of this rare self-pity. She fell into that daytime sleep which, for the exhausted, can be profounder than any that comes at night, and she sank into it as though she floated on subsiding water, without consciousness of the drop, and, accompanying the descent, there was the promise of an oblivion which came upon her before she had had her fill of waiting for it.
Out of this timelessness, this absolute ease from care, she woke with a thumping heart, and with an effort, like a physical wrench, to remember where she was. Darkness had filled her bedroom, the noise she had heard, on the point of waking, as that of horses thundering up the stairs, resolved itself into heavy, hurried footsteps, and her door was flung open to the sound of Ethel’s voice calling for Miss Mole. A fire in the house, or in the theatre, Ruth run over, an accident to Mr. Corder or Mr. Pilgrim, were possibilities rushing to Hannah’s mind as she put her feet to the floor and felt Ethel’s presence in the room, and before she could light the gas, she heard Ethel saying in breathless catastrophic tones, “I’ve been to see Mrs. Spenser-Smith!”
The matchbox slipped from Hannah’s fingers and while she fumbled for it, her legs aching sharply with her fright, she muttered angrily, “I thought someone was dead, at least.”
“It’s worse!” Ethel cried shrilly.
Hannah lit the gas and, looking at Ethel, she thought she saw what Mr. Blenkinsop had seen ten days ago, for strong emotions have faces of their own, and those which had command of Ethel had blotted out the individuality of her features and she might as easily have been taken for Hannah Mole or any other woman in distress, as for Ethel Corder, the competent leader of the Girls’ Club. It was no wonder Mr. Blenkinsop had prowled up and down the street, when he had the memory of such a face; it was no wonder he had not risked further communication with a woman who could look like that, but Hannah had responsibilities towards Ethel which were not Mr. Blenkinsop’s towards her, and whereas she had been incapable of speech, Ethel’s was torrential under the encouragement she received.
She had been to see Mrs. Spenser-Smith in search of comfort and advice. Who else was there she could go to? She had no mother, her father was angry and Miss Mole, to whom she told this story, was the cause of half the trouble, but Mrs. Spenser-Smith who ought to have been consoling and maternal had shattered what happiness Ethel had.
“She was cruel to me, Miss Mole,” Ethel said, with tears streaming down her face. “So cold and haughty. She said Father was quite right; she didn’t like Mr. Pilgrim herself. She said—But it can’t be true! If it’s true, I shall die!”
“No, you won’t die,” Hannah said soothingly.
“But I shall want to!”
“I’m afraid that won’t make any practical difference. Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”
“Oh, Miss Mole, what do you know about it?” Ethel cried. “And it wouldn’t be dying of love. It would be dying of—of shame! For having loved him.”
“You won’t even die of that,” Hannah said, very low.
“It isn’t that I care what he’s done. I could forgive anything—only not lies, not lies! I couldn’t love anyone who told me lies.”
“Then you’ll have a remarkably narrow choice,” Hannah said drily. “But, it seems to me, the important question is whether he loves you.”
“But of course he does!” The flow of Ethel’s tears stopped and went on again.
“Has he said so? In so many words? Was it what they used to call a declaration? Unmistakably?”
“Yes,” Ethel said, dropping her head. “He told me yesterday—but I knew before that.”
“Then why in the world were you crying last night when Ruth and I came in? You ought to have been jumping for joy, girl!”
“But Father came and said awful things about him, and Mrs. Spenser-Smith says he isn’t a good man. She says he’s telling tales about you because he’s afraid you’ll tell them about him. She says you know something against him. You don’t, do you, Miss Mole? You said you’d never seen him till the Spenser-Smiths’ party—he told me so, but who am I to believe?”
Hannah sat on her bed, looking at her folded hands and for a few minutes she was more occupied with thoughts of Lilla than of Ethel or herself. “So you told Mrs. Spenser-Smith what you had heard about me, did you?”
“Yes. I didn’t mean to, but it came out.”
“It would!” Hannah said, and she smiled as she pictured Lilla’s horror, her immediate belief in her cousin’s guilt, and her equal quickness in protecting her own reputation by using the hint Hannah had dropped about Mr. Pilgrim’s little secrets.
“And oh, Miss Mole, don’t tell me lies to comfort me,” Ethel begged.
Hannah had already made her decision, but these courageous words ennobled the task she had set herself and though she doubted Mr. Pilgrim’s worthiness of the girl who had uttered them, she would not allow the doubt to influence her. “You can go on loving him,” she said. “He hasn’t told you any lies, not about me, anyhow, and I don’t suppose he has ever committed what he would call a sin. That’s what’s the matter with him. You see, he’s got a grudge against me. I shut my door in his face once, and I’d do it again, and, worse still, I believe I laughed at him. He can’t forgive that, and then, if he loves you, he has an interest in looking after you and trying to get rid of me. He wouldn’t like me to do you harm. I don’t blame him. I
