“Then wasn’t there a cousin Hilda?” Ethel asked timidly, making sure of Mr. Pilgrim’s perfections before she gave way to her joy.
“Not in the flesh,” Hannah said, “but in every other way, there was, and now she has vanished and her works follow her. The evil that men do—” Her words slipped into silence and after a moment she added, very softly, to herself, “But it was not evil.”
She was not looking at Ethel, but she could feel her fascinated stare at this new species, at a woman who seemed good, who had never failed to give help when it was wanted, and yet confessed to wickedness, without apology or excuse.
“I shall have to tell Father,” Ethel said with difficulty.
Hannah raised her head sharply. “I don’t see the necessity,” she said, and she thought of Ruth, laughing at the pantomime and proud of Wilfrid’s company.
“But don’t you see, I must. It’s only fair to Mr. Pilgrim, and to me. Mrs. Spenser-Smith will be saying things about him. Why, it might ruin him!”
“Then tell him,” Hannah said wearily.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mole, I really am. It seems mean, I know, and I’ve always liked you, but you see, don’t you?”
What Hannah saw most clearly was her own shabby, homeless figure, and it amazed her that Ethel did not see it too, but she said, “Yes, yes, I see it all. Don’t tell him until Ruth’s in bed. And don’t tell her at all. I’ll send her to bed early, and I’ll go out. It would be uncomfortable for you, wouldn’t it, to know I was in the next room? Wouldn’t it?” she persisted.
“Oh, yes, Miss Mole, it would. You think of everything, and I’ll do my best. I’ll ask Father to forgive you and, you’ve been so good to us, I’m sure he will.”
“Well, leave me now,” Hannah said.
She counted her money. She would not stay to be blessed by Mr. Corder’s forgiveness. She would go tomorrow. She had no intention of going without giving Robert Corder an opportunity to repeat his generosity and herself the unlikely pleasure of refusing it. She had made her choice. She had sacrificed Ruth to Ethel’s chance of happiness, but she could not sacrifice all her dignity to Ruth, who had her Uncle Jim to care for her, and to Uncle Jim, Hannah wrote, before she went downstairs, and, turning to look at the little ship which had been her companion for so long, she decided that Ruth should have it in exchange for Hannah Mole.
Years seemed to pass over her head while she waited for Ruth and Wilfrid to come in, and while she listened to all they had to tell her. The evening meal, strained by Robert Corder’s general disgust with uncalled for circumstances, Ethel’s nervous excitement and Ruth’s carefulness to let fall no revealing word, seemed everlasting, and then there was the night-light to be lit for the last time, and there were more of Ruth’s confidences to hear, before Hannah could leave the house, bareheaded and wearing her old ulster.
She hesitated at Mr. Samson’s gate, but she did not open it. She was afraid she would cry if anyone spoke kindly to her, and more afraid that the signs of this weakness were on her face. And why was she so miserable? She had foreseen all this and been prepared to meet it without a murmur. Was it because she was leaving Ruth, because her secret was being discussed in the study, or because she had no money and no home? It was because of all of these, but they were only part of her distress, for she could no longer trust that spring of hope which, hitherto, had always flowed for her, sometimes feebly, more often with iridescent bubbles which might break as she put her lips to them and change their shape, but kept a quality that refreshed her. The spring had run dry and, as though she went in search of another, she hurried up the street in a drizzling rain and followed the route she and Mr. Blenkinsop had taken when they had walked together at night and found nothing to say to one another. It was strange to remember that she would have been as happy, then, without him, and now, with each step she took, her desire to speak to him increased, not to tell him anything, just to speak to him, before she went away.
She went round the hill with no regard for the cliffs and the dark river and the sparkling docks she loved so well. She knew they were there and, in a way, they comforted her, but she did not look at them. She hurried down the sloping ground, across The Green and across Albert Square, and she did not slacken her pace until she reached Mrs. Gibson’s door. The door was open, and Mr. Blenkinsop, in his coat and hat, was turning to shut it for the night.
XL
“I have just come back from Beresford Road,” he said. “They told me you were out.”
“They?” Hannah said anxiously.
Mr. Blenkinsop smiled. “A loose expression! I only saw the servant. How did we miss each other?”
“I’ve been for a walk,” Hannah said, watching Mr. Blenkinsop hanging up his coat and hat.
“You oughtn’t to do that, at this time of night. And nothing on your head! It’s quite wet,” he said in annoyance.
“What time is it?” They spoke in low tones, careful for the slumbers of Mrs. Gibson and the little maid and the people in the basement.
“Ten o’clock.”
“Then I oughtn’t to be here, either. I must go back.” The smile of the alert Miss Mole was weak and wavering, like a nervous child’s. “I don’t really know why I came at all,” she said, and she looked at him as though she expected him to explain her action. “I shall be locked out. I forgot to bring my latchkey.”
“Then we shall have to trouble
