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 Mr. Corder to let us in,” Mr. Blenkinsop said.
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 you about the other cottage we’ve got hold of. It belongs to Ridding’s brother-in-law. He’s a farmer and he’ll be able to keep an eye on Ridding and help him with his fowls.” He was looking at the fire, avoiding her eyes, and he did not see astonishment gradually spreading over her face. “Ridding will be better in the country. An office isn’t the place for a man like that, and Mrs. Ridding thinks it will suit the baby. They’ll be going in about a fortnight and it’s a great load off my mind,” he ended with a deep sigh.
“Take my cup,” Hannah said in a strangled voice. “Take my cup. I shall spill the tea. I’m going to laugh. But I can’t!” she cried after a moment. “Oh, what’s going to happen to me if I can’t laugh any more?”
“You’re tired out,” he said.
“Yes, but it isn’t that.” She looked about her, seeking an explanation. “It must be because it isn’t really funny,” she said in a low, puzzled voice. “You see, I thought you were in love with Mrs. Ridding. I thought the cottage was for you and her.”
“Good God!” Mr. Blenkinsop exclaimed in horror, and again Hannah had the sensation that her heart was shrinking to the size of a pea. He was kind to her, as he was kind to Mrs. Ridding, but this was what he thought of such love affairs as hers, and now she stood up with a deceptive briskness.
“And that,” she said, in a hard voice, “just shows you what kind of a mind I’ve got. I suspect everybody else of what I did myself! And now I must go back, for Ruth may want me.”
“She can’t want you as much as I do,” Mr. Blenkinsop said quietly, in unmistakable accents.
Hannah stood quite still. She clung to her coat, but it dropped out of her hand, and she said slowly, addressing the wall in front of her, “This isn’t true.”
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “That’s why I’ve been bothering about the Riddings, to do something I thought would please you. And if you’re going to say you don’t care about me—”
“But I’m not!” Hannah cried, with a wide, tremulous smile. “I’m not! Don’t talk to me for a little while. Don’t say anything,” she begged and Mr. Blenkinsop was obediently silent while she lay back in her chair, telling herself that the miracle she had believed in had really happened, it had really happened, it was here, in this room, but in a moment she started up again. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll sell the cottage and give the money to the Riddings.”
“As a thank-offering!” he said.
“Yes,” she said, rather wistfully, “if it seems like that to you. Well, you know everything about me.”
“No,” he said, “and I don’t think I ever shall,” a speech more satisfying to Hannah than any more lover-like protestation.
It was twelve o’clock when they walked down Beresford Road, and Hannah had no latchkey, and Mr. Blenkinsop was looking forward to his interview with Robert Corder. And, after all, Ruth need never know, Hannah thought, in great content, and Mr. Corder would be relieved of the responsibility of taking action, and Ethel would marry Mr. Pilgrim and, surely, Uncle Jim would rescue Ruth and Robert Corder would marry Patsy Withers and find her somewhat dull after the incalculableness of Miss Mole, and, for this misfortune, Lilla would find compensation in the disappearance of a cousin who would cause her no more anxiety. The miracle had happened and though, through the wonder of it, there were regrets for Ruth, Hannah had never been less inclined to doubt that everything was for the best.
Can this be me? she asked herself. She had run up the road, two hours ago, in a drizzling rain and an unbearable loneliness, and now she had hold of Mr. Blenkinsop’s hand and the stars were shining.
“We’ll go away,” he was saying, and she glanced up at him and wondered if, like herself, he saw something whimsical and unlikely in their love. She hoped he did not. She could trust herself to see it with other people’s eyes and laugh, with them, without doing it any injury, but, for him, she wished this happiness to be too solemn and beautiful for mirth.
“We’ll go away,” he said. “I’ll leave the bank. You’ve made me rather ashamed of the bank. It’s too safe.”
“But I want safety now! That’s the worst of happiness—it makes you want safety. We mustn’t want it. I’ve always been afraid of wanting too much,” she said.
“Oh—my poor heart!” Mr. Blenkinsop exclaimed in a broken voice, and stopped and stooped to kiss her.