"Of what? Of things being different!" said Laura, speaking from a corner of the room where she had intended to remain silent.

But some one had to break that terrible pause. For Miss Panton--Nanty--with all her silliness had spoken words which were to all of them like a search-light suddenly turned upon the inner secrets of the woman who was dying upstairs.

"Poor Ethel! I'm afraid so," said Mrs. Bradford. "It's true that she did take things to heart--about the new houses, and the hedge, and all the rest." But the next moment that blinding light was blurred in Mrs.

Bradford's mind: "Of course I disliked the changes too--only I took them differently. I am sure they did not produce my sister's illness.

Of course not." And she glanced at Miss Panton with heavy-eyed disfavour.

"I am afraid Miss Ethel dreaded the idea of leaving this house," said the Vicar.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "You see, it was the only home my sister ever knew." And despite her real grief, she glanced up instinctively at Mr. Bradford's portrait, triumphing over the sister who lay upstairs.

"Some natures find these swift and tremendous changes harder to bear than others," said the Vicar. "But there is only one way for people like ourselves to take it, Mrs. Bradford. We must be kind, do the next job, and hold fast----"

Then he broke off, for the nurse was beckoning at the door; the end had come sooner than they expected.

Caroline drew down the blinds all over the house and then hovered about the hall in her coat and hat, not knowing whether to go back to the promenade or not. Lillie would want to leave, of course; but then she herself might be required here. At last G.o.dfrey came through, but he did not seem real to her. She was so exhausted by her own emotion and by the shock of Miss Ethel's death, that she was actually indifferent to him for the moment.

"Do you think I ought to go for Aunt Creddle?" she said tonelessly.

"They will want some one to help."

He did not answer at once, looking at her with a hara.s.sed expression, as if he scarcely was aware of what she said. He had a strained and haggard look which sat so oddly on his firm-fleshed, strong-featured face, but she knew it was not produced by grief for Miss Ethel. There was a little leap of the heart, then dull apathy again. Of course it was the money troubles which everybody seemed to know about----

She was about to repeat the question about Aunt Creddle, when Laura came out of the room, and G.o.dfrey immediately said with an air of relief: "Oh, here is Miss Temple. She will be able to tell you better than I can."

Laura paused, and for a moment the two girls stared at each other--interrogating, blaming, excusing--what was it? Anyway, it was over in a flash. The next second Caroline felt it was all imagination, for Laura came forward as frankly as usual, though her kind eyes were a little swollen with tears.

"What a good idea, Miss Raby," she said. "Mrs. Creddle is such a comfortable person when one is in trouble. I'm sure Mrs. Bradford will be glad to have her."

"I'll come back as soon as I have let Lillie know, if there is anything I can do. I can easily get some other girl to take my place," said Caroline.

"No, thank you. Really, there is nothing you can do," said Laura.

"You see, there is the nurse and Miss Panton, and myself; besides your aunt, if she comes. We should only run over each other."

Laura's voice was no less pleasant than before, but Caroline felt dismissed. The vague impression of that first, odd moment became startlingly vivid again. But even now she could not be sure that it was not all imagination--the effect of her own self-consciousness, after what had pa.s.sed between herself and Laura's lover.

As she walked down the drive she saw the jobbing gardener had returned and was continuing to lay sods on the ground where the privet hedge had been. The thought pa.s.sed through her mind that it looked like a new grave fresh sodded. Then she began to plan in her mind what she should say to Aunt Creddle, and to picture how that good-hearted woman would take it. At last she remembered her declaration only a few hours ago--could it be only a few hours ago?--that she would never enter Uncle Creddle's house again.

Now, it did not seem to matter. The heat of her pride and anger had died down and she began to see that her love for G.o.dfrey was too deep to be destroyed by anger or even contempt. He had planted it in her heart and she must carry it about always. Neither of them by any act of theirs could take it away from her.

But she was not actively and vitally miserable. Her being was simply soaked in a dull unhappiness which made her quite indifferent to the healthy p.r.i.c.king of small annoyances, so that when Mr. and Mrs. Graham pa.s.sed her with the barest of cold salutations, and never stopped to ask for news, even at this sad crisis, she did not care.

She was finding out the truth of what Miss Panton had said in the kitchen of the cottage--that every time a human being really feels it does not matter, he or she has a bitter foretaste of death, which is what makes this of all emotions the most truly sad.

Even when she reached Aunt Creddle's, whose words and exclamations fell about her ears like hail, she remained the same--delivering her message, then going on at once to take her place in the pay-box.

Lillie had already heard the news and was rather shocked that she should wish to remain. "Anybody can see you've been crying. Now, don't you think about me, Carrie. I don't mind stopping a bit."

"No, thanks, I'd rather be here. After all, it's my job. And they don't want me--there are plenty there without me," said Caroline.

But Lillie urged her at least to go somewhere and have a nice hot cup of tea and a rest, even if she were not needed at the Cottage; then at last departed, rebuffed and slightly irritated.

Caroline sat down on the chair; but she did not take up her knitting, though the rain now fell heavily, persistently, and fewer people than ever pa.s.sed through the barrier. She remained there with her hands idle, her eyes fixed on the expanse of sea that stretched out before her, so full of buoyant life, the spray from the breakers blown back like smoke in the wind under the swiftly-moving grey clouds.

After a while the handful of people who had been listening to the concert in the hall came out into the rain, shouting remarks to each other above the gale. "Windiest place in England! Very bracing, though--too bracing for my taste!"

A little later members of the band scurrying back to their lodgings: then utter silence, but for the sound of the wind and sea. But just before Lillie was due back again the weather cleared a little--between majestic clouds sweeping along like galleons, appeared a stretch of pure blue sky.

Perhaps it was some a.s.sociation of childhood, some impression she had gained, then, from a hymn speaking of death; but that bright blue sky made her suddenly think with an acute vividness of the woman who was dead. Where was Miss Ethel? What was she doing now?

Caroline's eyes remained fixed on the blue, but her mind had gone searching into the unknown; she was really groping her way, for the first time, across the barriers that lie between this life and the life of the world to come. Her soul really was trying to follow the soul of one already on the other side. Thus, strangely, it was Miss Ethel--buffeted and overcome by change--who led Caroline to this first glimpse of the unchanging.

But these things do not become a conscious part of experience until long afterwards; so Caroline went home to her tea without knowing what had happened--only thinking rather more regretfully and kindly than before about Miss Ethel.

_Chapter XXI_

_St. Martin's Summer_

The storm gave place to still weather the day before Miss Ethel's funeral. But that was all now over, so was the Sunday morning sermon wherein the Vicar referred to the good works of the departed, and during which members of the congregation felt for their pocket-handkerchiefs who had not troubled to go near the Cottage for months, or perhaps years.

Though this had happened some days ago the fine weather still held, and Laura had persuaded Mrs. Bradford to come down to the now deserted promenade for a little change of scene. They sat silent on the long bench; Mrs. Bradford a little overdone in her heavy black clothes on such an unexpectedly warm morning, and Laura looking at a sea which once more broke in harmless little glittering waves on the firm sand.

The storm had dashed the water right up to the sea-wall, washing away all traces of the Thorhaven season from that part of the sh.o.r.e, while on the promenade itself b.u.t.terflies fluttered among the flower beds devastated by wind and rain. Far away down the beach, she saw the donkeys which had been ridden by children all the summer to the hootings of donkey boys, but they now plodded sedately with gravel in panniers on their backs up the cliff path, just as their ancestors had done for centuries past. It seemed really as if some power too immense for constant interference had grown suddenly tired of bands, visitors, tents, buckets and spades, and had swept them all away with a gesture, leaving only the stretch of sh.o.r.e; much as it was before Thorhaven existed, and as it would be when Thorhaven was under the sea like the other village beyond, which coast erosion had taken.

Perhaps Laura may have found this contrast between permanence and fleetingness depressing; anyway, her face was sad as she sat quietly there, looking in front of her. After a while she turned round to look inland, where the hall and the cafe and the pay-box were all shuttered and closed--already appearing somehow desolate. Then Mrs. Bradford, having regained her breath, felt that grat.i.tude made a remark necessary.

"Your loss is my gain, my dear," she said. "If you had not put off your wedding again, you would not be here to keep me company. When is it to be now?"

The blood deepened in Laura's face right up to the roots of her hair, but she smiled and answered easily: "Oh, no exact time has been fixed."

"Ah, well; I daresay you are right. You can't enjoy anything--even getting married--when you are in bad health. I was told the postponement might have something to do with G.o.dfrey's financial difficulties," Mrs. Bradford added, "but I felt sure there was nothing in that report." Still she glanced curiously at the girl by her side.

"No, it was not that." Laura paused, then went on: "Every business man who is making his way occasionally takes on more business than he has capital for. But I am sure he will get through all right. It was only temporary."

"I'm glad of that, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bradford. Then she lowered her voice confidentially: "But if I were you, I should see that my own money was securely tied up. G.o.dfrey may be a Wilson, but he is human.

I know poor Ethel would not have said this to you, because she always thought so much of the family. I don't blame her--poor Ethel!--but being married naturally gives one a wider view." And having thus triumphed over Miss Ethel, even in her grave, Mrs. Bradford relapsed into silence. Laura seemed equally inclined to sit quiet, so nothing more was said for a considerable time. At last three girls came walking briskly along the promenade, stimulating a further effort at conversation.

"I'm glad Caroline has decided to stay with us until our things are sold," said Mrs. Bradford.

"Yes. She has been very obliging," said Laura. Then Mrs. Bradford's thoughts went evenly inward again. "I have arranged to keep my own chair. The proprietress of the boarding-house at Scarborough has been very obliging about having it placed in a corner out of the draught.

They like a permanent boarder who is well recommended, and I shall be quite comfortable so long as I have my own chair in a nice corner, and my book and my knitting. You see, the sale of the house and furniture will enable me to take a good room on the first floor. I have no doubt I shall be all right there"--she paused--"as right as I can be now, that is to say," she added, her lip trembling.

During the silence which followed, the three girls pa.s.sed once more--heads erect and neatly-shod feet stepping lightly on the hard path. Mrs. Bradford looked after them with a sort of dull aversion.

"Two of those girls' mothers were in service. Why aren't they?"