When Caroline reached the Cottage she was surprised to see the front door standing wide open, for the storm swept full across the garden from the south now that the privet hedge was taken up. The next moment Laura came out, her face almost ghastly under the tan, and she put her hand on Caroline’s arm.

“There’s bad news,” she said, and paused. Caroline’s thoughts flew to
Godfrey, and her heart missed a beat. Then Laura went on again: “Miss
Ethel has had a fall. I am afraid she is very seriously ill indeed.
She was carrying a china pail downstairs and it was too heavy for her.”

Caroline stared into Laura’s face, forgetting Godfrey. “Oh, Miss Laura! I know what it was. I forgot to empty the pail, and she was doing it. If she dies I have killed her. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”

“Oh no; nothing of the sort,” said Laura, a little impatiently, for she had no clue to Caroline’s previously over-wrought condition. “The doctor thinks the fall was owing to some sort of seizure.”

Then they entered the house together, and as they crossed the hall Wilson came out from the sitting-room; but beyond a grave good morning to Caroline he said nothing, passing at once to the coat lobby to fetch his hat and coat.

Caroline hesitated a moment, not quite knowing what to do: then she went into the kitchen. Her meal was put ready on the table just as Miss Ethel had left it, and when Caroline saw the piece of meat and the cold tart and bread so neatly arranged for her by those hands so long unaccustomed to manual labour, she felt her lips begin to tremble. It was hard. Poor Miss Ethel! Poor Miss Ethel! If only she had remembered to empty that pail! If only And all at once she was seized by a passion of weeping which she could neither stop nor control. But it was not really for Miss Ethel it was for that, terrible blow to her love and pride which came before.

Then Miss Panton came into the kitchen with a hot-water bottle; so Caroline sprang up, choking back her sobs. “Here, let me fill that, Miss Panton!” As she went to the fireplace where there was a kettle boiling, she added in a low voice: “How is Miss Ethel now?”

“The doctor says she is unconscious,” answered Miss Panton, also speaking in the unnatural voice which people use at such a time. “It was a blessing the man happened to be laying sods where the privet hedge used to be, or I don’t know what Mrs. Bradford would have done. She ran out to him, and he fetched the woman who lives in that new house over the hedge. It seems she was a trained nurse before she married.”

“I hope Miss Ethel didn’t know. She hated that house being built,” said Caroline.

“I don’t think she knew; but it wouldn’t have mattered to her, poor dear,” said Miss Panton. “I suppose that’s why it is so dreadful to feel that nothing matters it always has a taste of death.” She spoke from the deeps of her own experience, wise with what she had lived through; but the next second she turned uncertain again and thrust forth one of her copy-book maxims. “Yes, yes. Decessity makes strange bed-fellows.”

Caroline fastened the hot-water bag. “I’ll run upstairs with this,” she said. “Then I shall see if there is anything else I can do.”

“I am afraid there is dothing anyone can do,” said Miss Panton, for her catarrh had come back with her nervous self-consciousness.

Mrs. Bradford came slowly downstairs into the hall, her big face congested with weeping. “Oh, Caroline!” she said.

But she could not say any more, and walked on into the sitting-room where the Vicar was already seated.

“Oh, Vicar: I’m afraid you are too late,” she said, and began to weep afresh. “It’s so dreadfully, dreadfully sudden.”

“I came the moment Mr. Wilson told me. I chanced to be in the house,” said the Vicar. He paused. “I wouldn’t trouble too much about my being late, Mrs. Bradford. Miss Ethel did not leave things until now, you know. She was ready to meet her God.”

“She is quite unconscious,” said Mrs. Bradford. “At first she kept murmuring over and over: ’Everything’s so different. everything’s so different.’ But the doctor said it was probably what she was saying to herself when she fell. It meant nothing.”

“Meant nothing!” It was Miss Panton’s voice, which cut abruptly across their solemn conversation, startling them both; but she had again forgotten herself entirely. “You say it meant nothing when she’s dying of it.”

“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 Godfrey 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 harassed 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 Godfrey 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 passed 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 passed 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 Godfrey 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 pricking of small annoyances, so that when Mr. and Mrs. Graham passed 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 passed 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 association 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.