That pronoun had an extraordinarily friendly sound in Hannah’s ears and she repeated it. “We’d better go now.”
“No. Come upstairs. I’m going to make some tea. You’re cold and wet.”
“But—” Hannah began, and Mr. Blenkinsop said severely. “Just try to forget there are any such people as the Corders. I’ll go up first and turn on the light.”
Mr. Blenkinsop’s room was warm and glowing with firelight and a shaded lamp, and there was not a sound in the house but the lapping of the fire and not a sound in the street. A dreary peace stole over Hannah, an indifference to duty and disaster, and she went towards one of the deep armchairs in an unreasonable conviction that if she could once get between its arms she need never get out again.
“Take off your coat, first,” Mr. Blenkinsop said. He was busy at a cupboard, getting out cups and saucers and a cannister of tea.
“My poor old coat!” Hannah said with a vague laugh. Months ago she had promised Ruth not to wear it. “But it will have to last for a long time yet,” she said to herself. She leaned back and shut her eyes and listened to Mr. Blenkinsop’s movements, to the change in the notes of the kettle, and then the hissing sound as tea and water met, and she did not open them until he said, “There, drink that.”
Suddenly she was awake, remembering when she had last seen Mr. Blenkinsop, and urgent with all the things she ought to say to him before she went away. “Have you taken that cottage?” she said.
“No. I was going to ask you if you’d like to sell it.”
“Not to you,” she said quickly.
“I don’t want it. I’ve found another that will suit us better, I think.”
“But how—” she was realising that she had not told him the house was hers. It was natural for him to know, and right, but she had not told him. “How do you know it belongs to me?” she asked, and though it was right for him to know, her eyes were wide and her mouth dropped piteously.
“I’ve been there again,” he said with a slight embarrassment, but a steady look. “I don’t like breaking appointments,” and at this description of the chase she had given him, she laughed without much mirth.
Mr. Blenkinsop responded with a smile and then, quietly, looking at his well-shod feet, he said, “I’ve turned the fellow out.”
Like an arrow from a bow, Hannah’s thin body darted forward, a hand on each arm of her chair, and the last embers of her loyalty leapt into a blaze under the indignant breath with which she cried, “How dare you? How dare you? What business was it of yours to interfere?”
Without raising his head, Mr. Blenkinsop turned it towards the fire. “Somebody had to do it,” he said mildly. “You see, when it came to talking business, he couldn’t produce a deed or a lease and he isn’t a very competent liar. In the end, he had to refer me to the owner so I just told him he’d better go.”
“Then you can just go back and tell him he can stay.”
“Oh, he’s gone by this time, and the man who owns the farm is willing to buy the place. Somebody has to look after you,” he explained patiently.
Hannah stood up and reached out blindly for her coat. “But not you,” she said, and her voice seemed to come from the very source of sorrow. “Isn’t there anybody in the world who won’t trample on the few things I’ve had?” she asked plaintively. “All these people—why must they? And you—I didn’t think you would do it.” Her anger took hold of her again. “What right had you to interfere?” she repeated. Then pure pain overcame her anger and, she said, “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, but I didn’t think you would do it. I didn’t think you would try to find out why I ran away.” Again she put out her hands for her coat, but they did not meet it and she sat down again, as though she had forgotten what she meant to do.
“What else could I do?” he said simply. “I told you I couldn’t leave it at that. You were in trouble and you wouldn’t tell me what it was. I see now that I ought not to have gone without asking you, but I’m glad I did. No, I ought not to have gone, but when I went I thought there might be something I could do for you. All sorts of queer ideas came into my head and I never thought, I never thought for a moment—.”
Hannah dropped her hands from her face and he saw the familiar, teasing smile. “And yet it ought to have been the first thing that occurred to you.”
“Ought it? I suppose I’m stupid. You’ll have to forgive me. I saw he was trying to rob you, or not caring whether he did or not, but I didn’t turn him out until—until—”
“No, no,” Hannah mourned. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me anything he said. Is there no end to it? I didn’t mind your knowing about it, but I didn’t want you to see him. That’s why I ran away. I didn’t want you to see him and now you’ve seen him and talked to him. You’ve seen the kind of man I loved—and lived with. It was the only thing, the only thing about me I didn’t want you to know—the kind of man—and even that I couldn’t keep. I can’t keep anything! Oh, let me go back. I must go back.” With a tremendous effort at self-command she changed her voice to one of acid amusement. “It seems to me that your affection for one woman has made rather a busybody of you, Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” he said. “Drink your tea. There’s no hurry. I want to tell
