Chapter XXXV

“God’s justice, tardy though it prove,
Rests never on the track
Until it reach delinquency.”

ROBERT BROWNING.

When Daphne went up to her room a thin, grey light was growing out of the east. From her window the houses stood out in heavy, mysterious shapes against the sky, the street lamps flared dimly, and far off in the city the great tide of labour, gave morning witness, to its intention of flooding the town. Daphne shivered and turned on the electric light; she never could think much in the dark, and she wanted to think more than anything in the world. In a few hours time she would have to answer at the Board of Trustees as to whether she would sign on or not, and she was not going to. Katherine would be hurt, and she would have to say good-bye, then she would go to her uncle and tell him that she meant to stay.

She would grow old there doing good in the parish; it would be very dull, doing good seemed to be that, she thought; but then, wasn’t even doing bad, dull, when you had to keep it up? In time her hair would turn grey, and she would begin to call people “My dear”; her aunt always called people “My dear.” Then Reggie would see that she was not a flirt, but of course it didn’t matter in the least what Reggie saw, he had behaved abominably, she would never speak to him again. Arthur would be surprised, but his wife was very pretty, perhaps he would not be surprised long. As for Philip, he had never really spoken, she would write him a very nice little letter, and he would probably keep it, but he would stick to his parish. All these thoughts passed like pictures through her mind, and left her staring blankly before her, and repeating word for word what Reggie had said.

Then she took up a pen and wrote to her uncle. “I want to come back to you,” she wrote, “and live differently. I have taken an absolute pleasure in getting my own way, and then have been proud of myself for getting it. There is not a single thing in my life at this present moment, which is not a self-indulgence or the result of one. Life has brought me up sharp very often, and I have given up the accursed thing, but I have found other ones just as much accursed. I have done good things from bad motives, and when I have had good motives, I have generally not done the things! I have been independent and it has not succeeded, I have made my own discipline, and been careful that there shouldn’t be thorns.

“Now I wish to put my life in your hands. I want to wake up and be forgiven, and punished, and to begin again. Do you remember reading me one night Rossetti’s ‘Landmark?’

“Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.”

“Let me return then, and show me what I must do. I must tell you, I have not played the game fair. I have made some people very unhappy because I have wanted to be liked, and I _still_ want to be liked, only not by making people unhappy. That is a very terrible way, and I hope it will hurt me horribly whenever I think about it. May I come? Daphne.”

Then she wrote a short note three times and tore it up; the fourth time she let it stand.

“Dear Reggie,” she had written. “All that you said to-night was perfectly true, and a great deal more that you might have said and didn’t, that was true as well, and indeed, I am grateful to you, though I was very angry at the time. I am going back to my uncle, and I do not expect I shall ever see you again. But you will know that I think of you most gratefully and wish you all good luck. Daphne Fordington.”

“And I won’t write to Philip at all,” she said, and that was very hard, for she knew she could have written such a nice letter to Philip. Then she undressed and went to bed. It was seven o’clock, and London was wide awake now.

In Lady Middleton’s dressing-room London was very wide awake indeed. She stood facing her husband, and he, with his hand on the door, was obliged to stay.

“So _you_ sent that invitation,” she said at last in piercingly chilly tones. “Who made you?”

“I don’t see why,” said her husband a little sulkily, “you think I had to be _made_ to—it was only right.”

“Oh, right!” said Vera, with infinite scorn. “I should have thought you would have had more sense than to make that excuse to me.” She repeated the question. Sir Henry told her, and then wished he hadn’t; both of these things were a habit with him. “Do you know that she is a very bad woman?” his wife asked coldly.

“I know that she drinks,” he blurted out. Lady Middleton sat down, she was very tired, and she had not counted on his knowledge of facts.

“Why do you wish to disgrace us?” she asked. “People will want to know why Arthur Field lived alone, and where she was. The thing will get out. I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Daphne and David were bad enough, but this——” She paused speechless.

“She’s your own sister,” he threw out feebly.

“Oh, go to bed!” snapped his wife, “you were born a fool! At any rate in the future leave things to me and don’t meddle.”

Sir Henry Middleton backed out of the door, he was very thankful indeed that there was a door. Vera sat there for a long time, she looked grey and old. By-and-bye a maid brought her tea. When she left her, Vera leaned back in the chair and cried. She was very tired, and it was all so unfortunate, and there were no societies, for that sort of thing.