'Good-morning, Miss Reed!' he replied. 'Warm this morning.'
She wondered whether he knew anything of the subject which made her heart beat with excitement whenever she thought of it, and for thinking of it she hadn't slept a wink all night.
'Have you seen Mr Griffith this morning?' she asked, watching his face.
'No; I saw Mrs Griffith and George as I was walking up.'
'Oh! they are coming to church, then!' Miss Reed cried with the utmost surprise.
Mr Golding looked at her stupidly, not understanding her agitation. But they had reached the church. Miss Reed stopped in the porch to wipe her boots and pass an arranging hand over her hair. Then, gathering herself together, she walked down the aisle to her pew.
She arranged the hassock and knelt down, clasping her hands and closing her eyes; she said the Lord's Prayer; and being a religious woman, she did not immediately rise, but remained a certain time in the same position of worship to cultivate a proper frame of mind, her long, sallow face upraised, her mouth firmly closed, and her eyelids quivering a little from the devotional force with which she kept her eyes shut; her thin bust, very erect, was encased in a black jacket as in a coat of steel. But when Miss Reed considered that a due period had elapsed, she opened her eyes, and, as she rose from her knees, bent over to a lady sitting just in front of her.
'Have you heard about the Griffiths, Mrs Howlett?'
'No ...! What is it?' answered Mrs Howlett, half turning round, intensely curious.
Miss Reed waited a moment to heighten the effect of her statement.
'Daisy Griffith has eloped – with an officer from the depot at Tercanbury.'
Mrs Howlett gave a little gasp.
'You don't say so!'
'It's all they could expect,' whispered Miss Reed. 'They ought to have known something was the matter when she went into Tercanbury three or four times a week.'
Blackstable is six miles from Tercanbury, which is a cathedral city and has a cavalry depot.
'I've seen her hanging about the barracks with my own eyes,' said Mrs Howlett, 'but I never suspected anything.'
'Shocking, isn't it?' said Miss Reed, with suppressed delight.
'But how did you find out?' asked Mrs Howlett.
'Ssh!' whispered Miss Reed – the widow, in her excitement, had raised her voice a little and Miss Reed could never suffer the least irreverence in church ... 'She never came back last night and George Browning saw them get into the London train at Tercanbury.'
'Well, I never!' exclaimed Mrs Howlett.
'D'you think the Griffiths'll have the face to come to church?'
'I shouldn't if I was them,' said Miss Reed.
But at that moment the vestry door was opened and the organ began to play the hymn.
'I'll see you afterwards,' Miss Reed whispered hurriedly; and, rising from their seats, both ladies began to sing:
O Jesus, thou art standing Outside the fast closed door,
In lowly patience waiting To pass the threshold o'er;
We bear the name of Christians ...
Miss Reed held the book rather close to her face, being short-sighted; but, without even lifting her eyes, she had become aware of the entrance of Mrs Griffith and George. She glanced significantly at Mrs Howlett. Mr Griffith hadn't come, although he was churchwarden, and Mrs Howlett gave an answering look which meant that it was then evidently quite true. But they both gathered themselves together for the last verse, taking breath.
O Jesus, thou are pleading In accents meek and low ...
A – A – men! The congregation fell to its knees, and the curate, rolling his eyes to see who was in church, began gabbling the morning prayers – 'Dearly beloved brethren ...'
2
At the Sunday dinner, the vacant place of Daisy Griffith stared at them. Her father sat at the head of the table, looking down at his plate, in silence, every now and then, without raising his head, he glanced up at the empty space, filled with a madness of grief ... He had gone into Tercanbury in the morning inquiring at the houses of all Daisy's friends, imagining that she had spent the night with one of them. He could not believe that George Browning's story was true; he could so easily have been mistaken in the semi-darkness of the station. And even he had gone to the barracks – his cheeks still burned with the humiliation – asking if they knew a Daisy Griffith.
He pushed his plate away with a groan. He wished passionately that it were Monday, so that he could work. And the post would surely bring a letter, explaining.
'The vicar asked where you were,' said Mrs Griffith.
Robert, the father, looked at her with his pained eyes, but her eyes were hard and shining, her lips almost disappeared in the tight closing of the mouth. She was willing to believe the worst. He looked at his son; he was frowning; he looked as coldly angry as the mother. He, too, was willing to believe everything, and they neither seemed very sorry ... Perhaps they were even glad.
'I was the only one who loved her,' he muttered to himself, and pushing back his chair, he got up and left the room. He almost tottered; he had aged twenty years in the night.
'Aren't you going to have any pudding?' asked his wife.
He made no answer.
He walked out into the courtyard quite aimlessly, but the force of habit took him to the workshop, where, every Sunday afternoon, he was used to going after dinner to see that everything was in order, and today also he opened the window, put away a tool which the men had left about, examined the Saturday's work ...
Mrs Griffith and George, stiff and ill at ease in his clumsy Sunday clothes, went on with their dinner.
'D'you think the vicar knew?' he asked as soon as the father had closed the door.
'I don't think he'd have asked if he had. Mrs Gray might, but he's too simple – unless she put him up to it.'
'I thought I should never get round with the plate,' said George. Mr Griffith, being a carpenter, which is respectable and well-to-do, which is honourable, had been made churchwarden, and part of his duty was to take round the offertory plate. This duty George performed in his father's occasional absences, as when a coffin was very urgently required.
'I wasn't going to let them get anything out of me,' said Mrs Griffith, defiantly.
All through the service a number of eyes had been fixed on them, eager to catch some sign of emotion, full of horrible curiosity to know what the Griffiths felt and thought; but Mrs Griffith had been inscrutable.
3
Next day the Griffiths lay in wait for the postman; George sat by the parlour window, peeping through the muslin curtains.
'Fanning's just coming up the street,' he said at last. Until the post had come old Griffith could not work; in the courtyard at the back was heard the sound of hammering.
There was a rat-tat at the door, the sound of a letter falling on the mat, and Fanning the postman passed on. George leaned back quickly so that he might not see him. Mr Griffith fetched the letter, opened it with trembling hands ... He gave a little gasp of relief.
'She's got a situation in London.'
'Is that all she says?' asked Mrs Griffith. 'Give me the letter,' and she almost tore it from her husband's hand.
She read it through and uttered a little ejaculation of contempt – almost of triumph. 'You don't mean to say you believe that?' she cried.
'Let's look, Mother,' said George. He read the letter and he too gave a snort of contempt.
'She says she's got a situation,' repeated Mrs Griffith, with a sneer at her husband, 'and we're not to be angry or anxious and she's quite happy – and we can write to Charing Cross Post Office. I know what sort of a situation she's got.'
Mr Griffith looked from his wife to his son.
'Don't you think it's true?' he asked helplessly. At the first moment he had put the fullest faith in Daisy's letter, he had been so anxious to believe it; but the scorn of the others ...
'There's Miss Reed coming down the street,' said George. 'She's looking this way, and
she's crossing over. I believe she's coming in.'
'What does she want?' asked Mrs Griffith, angrily.
There was another knock at the door, and through the curtains they saw Miss Reed's eyes looking towards them, trying to pierce the muslin. Mrs Griffith motioned the two men out of the room, and hurriedly put antimacassars on the chairs. The knock was repeated, and Mrs Griffith, catching hold of a duster, went to the door.
'Oh, Miss Reed! Who'd have thought of seeing you?' she cried with surprise.
'I hope I'm not disturbing,' answered Miss Reed, with an acid smile.
'Oh, dear no!' said Mrs Griffith. 'I was just doing the dusting in the parlour. Come in, won't you? The place is all upside down, but you won't mind that, will you?'
Miss Reed sat on the edge of a chair.
'I thought I'd just pop in to ask about dear Daisy. I met Fanning as I was coming along and he told me you'd had a letter.'
'Oh! Daisy?' Mrs Griffith had understood at once why Miss Reed came, but she was rather at a loss for an answer ... 'Yes, we have had a letter from her. She's up in London.'
'Yes, I knew that,' said Miss Reed. 'George Browning saw them getting into the London train, you know.'
Mrs Griffith saw it was no good fencing, but an idea occurred to her.
'Yes, of course her father and I are very distressed about – her eloping like that.'
'I can quite understand that,' said Miss Reed.
'But it was on account of his family. He didn't want anyone to know about it till he was married.'
'Oh!' said Miss Reed, raising her eyebrows very high.
'Yes,' said Mrs Griffith, 'that's what she said in her letter; they were married on Saturday at a registry office.'
'But, Mrs Griffith, I'm afraid she's been deceiving you. It's Captain Hogan ... and he's a married man.'
She could have laughed outright at the look of dismay on Mrs Griffith's face. The blow was sudden, and, notwithstanding all her power of self-control, Mrs Griffith could not help herself. But at once she recovered, an angry flush appearing on her cheek-bones.
'You don't mean it?' she cried.
'I'm afraid it's quite true,' said Miss Reed, humbly. 'In fact I know it is.'
'Then she's a lying, deceitful hussy, and she's made a fool of all of us. I give you my word of honour that she told us she was married; I'll fetch you the letter.' Mrs Griffith rose from her chair, but Miss Reed put a hand to stop her.
'Oh, don't trouble, Mrs Griffith; of course I believe you,' she said, and Mrs Griffith immediately sat down again.
But she burst into a storm of abuse of Daisy, for her deceitfulness and wickedness. She vowed she would never forgive her. She assured Miss Reed again and again that she had known nothing about it. Finally she burst into a perfect torrent of tears. Miss Reed was mildly sympathetic; but now she was anxious to get away to impart her news to the rest of Blackstable. Mrs Griffith sobbed her visitor out of the front door, but when she had closed it, dried her tears. She went into the parlour and flung open the door that led to the back room. Griffith was sitting with his face hidden in his hands, and every now and then a sob shook his great frame. George was very pale, biting his nails.
'You heard what she said,' cried Mrs Griffith. 'He's married...!' She looked at her husband contemptuously. 'It's all very well for you to carry on like that now. It was you who did it; it was all your fault. If she'd been brought up as I wanted her to be, this wouldn't ever have happened.'
Again there was a knock, and George, going out, ushered in Mrs Gray, the vicar's wife. She rushed in when she heard the sound of voices.
'Oh, Mrs Griffith, it's dreadful! simply dreadful! Miss Reed has just told me all about it. What is to be done? And what'll the dissenters make of it? Oh, dear, it's simply dreadful!'
'You've just come in time, Mrs Gray,' said Mrs Griffith, angrily. 'It's not my fault. I can tell you that. It's her father who's brought it about. He would have her go into Tercanbury to be educated, and he would have her take singing lessons and dancing lessons. The Church school was good enough for George. It's been Daisy this and Daisy that all through. Me and George have been always put by for Daisy. I didn't want her brought up above her station, I can assure you. It's him who would have her brought up as a lady; and see what's come of it! And he let her spend any money she liked on her dress ... It wasn't me that let her go into Tercanbury every day in the week if she wanted to. I knew she was up to no good. There you see what you've brought her to; it's you who's disgraced us all!'
She hissed out the words with intense malignity, nearly screaming in the bitterness she felt towards the beautiful daughter of better education than herself, almost of different station. It was all but a triumph for her that this had happened. It brought her daughter down; she turned the tables, and now, from the superiority of her virtue, she looked down upon her with utter contempt.
4
On the following Sunday the people of Blackstable enjoyed an emotion; as Miss Reed said:
'It was worth going to church this morning, even for a dissenter.'
The vicar was preaching, and the congregation paid a very languid attention, hut suddenly a curious little sound went through the church – one of those scarcely perceptible noises which no comparison can explain; it was a quick attraction of all eyes, an arousing of somnolent intelligences, a slight, quick drawing-in of the breath. The listeners had heeded very indifferently Mr Gray's admonitions to brotherly love and charity as matters which did not concern them other than abstractedly; but quite suddenly they had realized that he was bringing his discourse round to the subject of Daisy Griffith, and they pricked up both ears. They saw it coming directly along the highways of Vanity and Luxuriousness; and everyone became intensely wide awake.
'And we have in all our minds,' he said at last, 'the terrible fall which has almost broken the hearts of sorrowing parents and brought bitter grief – bitter grief and shame to all of us ...'
He went on hinting at the scandal in the matter of the personal columns in newspapers, and drawing a number of obvious morals. The Griffith family were sitting in their pew well in view of the congregation; and, losing even the shadow of decency, the people turned round and stared at them, ghoul-like ... Robert Griffith sat in the corner with his head bent down, huddled up, his rough face speaking in all its lines the terrible humiliation; his hair was all dishevelled. He was not more than fifty, and he looked an old man. But Mrs Griffith sat next to him, very erect, not leaning against the back, with her head well up, her mouth firmly closed, and she looked straight in front of her, her little eyes sparkling, as if she had not an idea that a hundred people were staring at her. In the other corner was George, very white, looking up at the roof in simulation of indifference. Suddenly a sob came from the Griffiths' pew, and people saw that the father had broken down; he seemed to forget where he was, and he cried as if indeed his heart were broken. The great tears ran down his cheeks in the sight of all – the painful tears of men; he had not even the courage to hide his face in his hands. Still Mrs Griffith made no motion, she never gave a sign that she heard her husband's agony; but two little red spots appeared angrily on her cheek-bones, and perhaps she compressed her lips a little more tightly ...
5
Six months passed. One evening, when Mr Griffith was standing at the door after work, smoking his pipe, the postman handed him a letter. He changed colour and his hand shook when he recognized the handwriting. He turned quickly into the house.
'A letter from Daisy,' he said. They had not replied to her first letter, and since then had heard nothing.
'Give it to me,' said his wife.
He drew it quickly towards him, with an instinctive gesture of retention.
'It's addressed to me.'
'Well, then, you'd better open it.'
He looked up at his wife; he wanted to take the letter away and read it alone, but her eyes were upon him, compelling him there and then to open it.
'She wants to come back,' he said
in a broken voice.
Mrs Griffith snatched the letter from him.
'That means he's left her,' she said.
The letter was all incoherent, nearly incomprehensible, covered with blots, every other word scratched out. One could see that the girl was quite distraught, and Mrs Griffith's keen eyes saw the trace of tears on the paper ... It was a long, bitter cry of repentance. She begged them to take her back, repeating again and again the cry of penitence, piteously beseeching them to forgive her.
'I'll go and write to her,' said Mr Griffith.
'Write what?'
'Why – that it's all right and she isn't to worry; and we want her back, and that I'll go up and fetch her.'
Mrs Griffith placed herself between him and the door.
'What d'you mean?' she cried. 'She's not coming back into my house.'
Mr Griffith started back.
'You don't want to leave her where she is! She says she'll kill herself.'
'Yes, I believe that,' she replied scornfully; and then, gathering up her anger, 'D'you mean to say you expect me to have her in the house after what she's done? I tell you I won't. She's never coming in this house again as long as I live; I'm an honest woman and she isn't. She's a –' Mrs Griffith called her daughter the foulest name that can be applied to her sex.
Mr Griffith stood indecisively before his wife.
'But think what a state she's in, Mother. She was crying when she wrote the letter.'
'Let her cry; she'll have to cry a lot more before she's done. And it serves her right; and it serves you right. She'll have to go through a good deal more than that before God forgives her, I can tell you.'
'Perhaps she's starving.'
'Let her starve, for all I care. She's dead to us; I've told everyone in Blackstable that I haven't got a daughter now, and if she came on her bended knees before me I'd spit on her.'
George had come in and listened to the conversation.
'Think what people would say, Father,' he said now; 'as it is, it's jolly awkward, I can tell you. No one would speak to us if she was back again. It's not as if people didn't know; everyone in Blackstable knows what she's been up to.'