CHAPTER IV.
Marcella on her way home turned into a little street leading to a greatblock of model dwellings, which rose on the right hand side and madeeverything else, the mews entrance opposite, the lines of squalid shopson either side, look particularly small and dirty. The sun was beatingfiercely down, and she was sick and tired.
As she entered the iron gate of the dwellings, and saw before her thelarge asphalted court round which they ran--blazing heat on one side ofit, and on the other some children playing cricket against the wall withchalk marks for wickets--she was seized with depression. The tall yetmean buildings, the smell of dust and heat, the general impression ofpacked and crowded humanity--these things, instead of offering her rest,only continued and accented the sense of strain, called for moreendurance, more making the best of it.
But she found a tired smile for some of the children who ran up to her,and then she climbed the stairs of the E. block, and opened the door ofher own tenement, number 10. In number 9 lived Minta Hurd and herchildren, who had joined Marcella in London some two months before. Insets 7 and 8, on either side of Marcella and the Hurds, lived twowidows, each with a family, who were mostly out charing during the day.
Marcella's Association allowed its District Nurses to live outside the"home" of the district on certain conditions, which had been fulfilledin Marcella's case by her settlement next door to her old friends inthese buildings which were inhabited by a very respectable though poorclass. Meanwhile the trustees of the buildings had allowed her to make atemporary communication between her room and the Hurds, so that shecould either live her own solitary and independent life, or call fortheir companionship, as she pleased.
As she shut her door behind her she found herself in a little passage orentry. To the left was her bedroom. Straight in front of her was theliving room with a small close range in it, and behind it a little backkitchen.
The living room was cheerful and even pretty. Her art-student's trainingshowed itself. The cheap blue and white paper, the couple of oak flaptables from a broker's shop in Marchmont Street, the two or three canechairs with their bright chintz cushions, the Indian rug or two on thevarnished boards, the photographs and etchings on the walls, the bookson the tables--there was not one of these things that was not in itsdegree a pleasure to her young senses, that did not help her to live herlife. This afternoon as she opened the door and looked in, the prettycolours and forms in the tiny room were as water to the thirsty. Hermother had sent her some flowers the day before. There they were on thetables, great bunches of honey-suckles, of blue-bells, and Banksiaroses. And over the mantelpiece was a photograph of the place where suchflowers as Mellor possessed mostly grew--the unkempt lawn, the oldfountain and grey walls of the Cedar Garden.
The green blind over the one window which looked into the court, hadbeen drawn down against the glare of the sun, as though by a carefulhand. Beside a light wooden rocking chair, which was Marcella'sfavourite seat, a tray of tea things had been put out. Marcella drew along breath of comfort as she put down her bag.
"Now, _can_ I wait for my tea till I have washed and dressed?"
She argued with herself an instant as though she had been a greedychild, then, going swiftly into the back kitchen, she opened the doorbetween her rooms and the Hurds.
"Minta!"
A voice responded.
"Minta, make me some tea and boil an egg! there's a good soul! I will beback directly."
And in ten minutes or so she came back again into the sitting-room,daintily fresh and clean but very pale. She had taken off her nurse'sdress and apron, and had put on something loose and white that hungabout her in cool folds.
But Minta Hurd, who had just brought in the tea, looked at herdisapprovingly.
"Whatever are you so late for?" she asked a little peevishly. "You'llget ill if you go missing your dinner."
"I couldn't help it, Minta, it was such a bad case."
Mrs. Hurd poured out the tea in silence, unappeased. Her mind wasconstantly full of protest against this nursing. Why should Miss Boycedo such "funny things"--why should she live as she did, at all?
Their relation to each other was a curious one. Marcella, knowing thatthe life of Hurd's widow at Mellor was gall and bitterness, had sent forher at the moment that she herself was leaving the hospital, offeringher a weekly sum in return for a little cooking and house service. Mintaalready possessed a weekly pension, coming from a giver unknown to her.It was regularly handed to her by Mr. Harden, and she could only imaginethat one of the "gentlemen" who had belonged to the Hurd ReprieveCommittee, and had worked so hard for Jim, was responsible for it, outof pity for her and her children. The payment offered her by Miss Boycewould defray the expense of London house-rent, the children's schooling,and leave a trifle over. Moreover she was pining to get away fromMellor. Her first instinct after her husband's execution had been tohide herself from all the world. But for a long time her precariousstate of health, and her dependence first on Marcella, then on MaryHarden, made it impossible for her to leave the village. It was not tillMarcella's proposal came that her way was clear. She sold her bits ofthings at once, took her children and went up to Brown's buildings.
Marcella met her with the tenderness, the tragic tremor of feeling fromwhich the peasant's wife shrank anew, bewildered, as she had oftenshrunk from it in the past. Jim's fate had made her an old woman atthirty-two. She was now a little shrivelled consumptive creature withalmost white hair, and a face from which youth had gone, unless perhapsthere were some traces of it in the still charming eyes, and small openmouth. But these changes had come upon her she knew not why, as theresult of blows she felt but had never reasoned about. Marcella's fixedmode of conceiving her and her story caused her from the beginning oftheir fresh acquaintance a dumb irritation and trouble she could neverhave explained. It was so tragic, reflective, exacting. It seemed to askof her feelings that she could not have, to expect from her expressionthat was impossible. And it stood also between her and the friends anddistractions that she would like to have. Why shouldn't that queer man,Mr. Strozzi, who lived down below, and whose name she could notpronounce, come and sit sometimes of an evening, and amuse her and thechildren? He was a "Professor of Elocution," and said and sung comicpieces. He was very civil and obliging too; she liked him. Yet MissBoyce was evidently astonished that she could make friends with him, andMinta perfectly understood the lift of her dark eyebrows whenever shecame in and found him sitting there.
Meanwhile Marcella had expected her with emotion, and had meant throughthis experiment to bring herself truly near to the poor. Minta must notcall her Miss Boyce, but by her name; which, however, Minta, reddening,had declared she could never do. Her relation to Marcella was not to bethat of servant in any sense, but of friend and sister; and on her andher children Marcella had spent from the beginning a number of newwomanish wiles which, strangely enough, this hard, strenuous life hadbeen developing in her. She would come and help put the children to bed;she would romp with them in their night-gowns; she would bend herimperious head over the anxious endeavour to hem a pink cotton pinaforefor Daisy, or dress a doll for the baby. But the relation jarred andlimped perpetually, and Marcella wistfully thought it her fault.
Just now, however, as she sat gently swaying backwards and forwards inthe rocking-chair, enjoying her tea, her mood was one of nothing butcontent.
"Oh, Minta, give me another cup. I want to have a sleep so badly, andthen I am going to see Miss Hallin, and stay to supper with them."
"Well, you mustn't go out in them nursin' things again," said Minta,quickly; "I've put you in some lace in your black dress, an' it looksbeautiful."
"Oh, thank you, Minta; but that black dress always seems to me too smartto walk about these streets in."
"It's just _nice_," said Minta, with decision. "It's just what everybodythat knows you--what your mamma--would like to see you in. I can't abidethem nursin' clothes--nasty things!"
"I declare!" cried Marcella, laughing, but
outraged; "I never likemyself so well in anything."
Minta was silent, but her small mouth took an obstinate look. What shereally felt was that it was absurd for ladies to wear caps and apronsand plain black bonnets, when there was no need for them to do anythingof the kind.
"Whatever have you been doing to your cheek?" she exclaimed, suddenly,as Marcella handed her the empty cup to take away.
Marcella explained shortly, and Minta looked more discontented thanever. "A lot of low people as ought to look after themselves," that washow in her inmost mind she generally defined Marcella's patients. Shehad been often kind and soft to her neighbours at Mellor, but thesedirty, crowded Londoners were another matter.
"Where is Daisy?" asked Marcella as Minta was going away with the tea;"she must have come back from school."
"Here I am," said Daisy, with a grin, peeping in through the door of theback kitchen. "Mother, baby's woke up."
"Come here, you monkey," said Marcella; "come and go to sleep with me.Have you had your tea?"
"Yes, lots," said Daisy, climbing up into Marcella's lap. "Are you goingto be asleep a long time?"
"No--only a nap. Oh! Daisy, I'm so tired. Come and cuddlie a bit! If youdon't go to sleep you know you can slip away--I shan't wake."
The child, a slight, red-haired thing, with something of the etherealcharm that her dead brother had possessed, settled herself on Marcella'sknees, slipped her left thumb into her mouth, and flung her other armround Marcella's neck. They had often gone to sleep so. Mrs. Hurd cameback, drew down the blind further, threw a light shawl over them both,and left them.
An hour and a half later Minta came in again as she had been told.Daisy had slipped away, but Marcella was still lying in the perfectgentleness and relaxation of sleep.
"You said I was to come and wake you," said Minta, drawing up the blind;"but I don't believe you're a bit fit to be going about. Here's some hotwater, and there's a letter just come."
Marcella woke with a start, Minta put the letter on her knee, and dreamand reality flowed together as she saw her own name in Wharton'shandwriting.
She read the letter, then sat flushed and thinking for a while with herhands on her knees.
A little while later she opened the Hurds' front-door.
"Minta, I am going now. I shall be back early after supper, for Ihaven't written my report."
"There--now you look something like!" said Minta, scanning herapprovingly--the wide hat and pretty black dress. "Shall Daisy run outwith that telegram?"
"No, thanks. I shall pass the post. Good-bye."
And she stooped and kissed the little withered woman. She wished,ardently wished, that Minta would be more truly friends with her!
After a brisk walk through the June evening she stopped--still withinthe same district--at the door of a house in a long, old-fashionedstreet, wherein the builder was busy on either hand, since most of thelong leases had just fallen in. But the house she entered was stilluntouched. She climbed a last-century staircase, adorned with panels ofstucco work--slender Italianate reliefs of wreaths, ribbons, andmedallions on a pale green ground. The decoration was clean and caredfor, the house in good order. Eighty years ago it was the home of afamous judge, who entertained in its rooms the legal and literarycelebrities of his day. Now it was let out to professional people inlodgings or unfurnished rooms. Edward Hallin and his sister occupied thetop floor.
Miss Hallin, a pleasant-looking, plain woman of about thirty-five, cameat once in answer to Marcella's knock, and greeted her affectionately.Edward Hallin sprang up from a table at the further end of the room.
"You are so late! Alice and I had made up our minds you had forgottenus!"
"I didn't get home till four, and then I had to have a sleep," sheexplained, half shyly.
"What! you haven't been night-nursing?"
"Yes, for once."
"Alice, tell them to bring up supper, and let's look after her."
He wheeled round a comfortable chair to the open window--the charmingcircular bow of last-century design, which filled up the end of the roomand gave it character. The window looked out on a quiet line of backgardens, such as may still be seen in Bloomsbury, with fine plane treeshere and there just coming into full leaf; and beyond them the backs ofanother line of houses in a distant square, with pleasant irregularitiesof old brickwork and tiled roof. The mottled trunks of the planes, theirblackened twigs and branches, their thin, beautiful leaves, the forms ofthe houses beyond, rose in a charming medley of line against the blueand peaceful sky. No near sound was to be heard, only the distant murmurthat no Londoner escapes; and some of the British Museum pigeons weresunning themselves on the garden-wall below.
Within, the Hallins' room was spacious and barely furnished. The walls,indeed, were crowded with books, and broken, where the books ceased, byphotographs of Italy and Greece; but of furniture proper there seemed tobe little beside Hallin's large writing-table facing the window, and afew chairs, placed on the blue drugget which brother and sister hadchosen with a certain anxiety, dreading secretly lest it should be apiece of self-indulgence to buy what pleased them both so much. On oneside of the fireplace was Miss Hallin's particular corner; her chair,the table that held her few special books, her work-basket, with itsknitting, her accounts. There, in the intervals of many activities, shesat and worked or read, always cheerful and busy, and always watchingover her brother.
"I wish," said Hallin, with some discontent, when Marcella had settledherself, "that we were going to be alone to-night; that would haverested you more."
"Why, who is coming?" said Marcella, a little flatly. She had certainlyhoped to find them alone.
"Your old friend, Frank Leven, is coming to supper. When he heard youwere to be here he vowed that nothing could or should keep him away.Then, after supper, one or two people asked if they might come in. Thereare some anxious things going on."
He leant his head on his hand for a moment with a sigh, then forciblywrenched himself from what were evidently recurrent thoughts.
"Do tell me some more of what you are doing!" he said, bending forwardto her. "You don't know how much I have thought of what you have told mealready."
"I'm doing just the same," she said, laughing. "Don't take so muchinterest in it. It's the fashion just now to admire nurses; but it'sridiculous. We do our work like other people--sometimes badly, sometimeswell. And some of us wouldn't do it if we could help it."
She threw out the last words with a certain vehemence, as though eagerto get away from any sentimentalism about herself. Hallin studied herkindly.
"Is this miscellaneous work a relief to you after hospital?" he asked.
"For the present. It is more exciting, and one sees more character. Butthere are drawbacks. In hospital everything was settled for you--everyhour was full, and there were always orders to follow. And the 'off'times were no trouble--I never did anything else but walk up and downthe Embankment if it was fine, or go to the National Gallery if it waswet."
"And it was the monotony you liked?"
She made a sign of assent.
"Strange!" said Hallin, "who could ever have foreseen it?"
She flushed.
"You might have foreseen it, I think," she said, not without a littleimpatience. "But I didn't like it all at once. I hated a great deal ofit. If they had let me alone all the time to scrub and polish andwash--the things they set me to at first--I thought I should have beenquite happy. To see my table full of glasses without a spot, and mybrass-taps shining, made me as proud as a peacock! But then of course Ihad to learn the real work, and that was very odd at first."
"How? Morally?"
She nodded, laughing at her own remembrances. "Yes--it seemed to me alltopsy-turvy. I thought the Sister at the head of the ward rather astupid person. If I had seen her at Mellor I shouldn't have spoken twowords to her. And here she was ordering me about--rating me as I hadnever rated a house-maid--laughing at me for not knowing this or that,and generally making me feel that a ra
w probationer was one of thethings of least account in the whole universe. I knew perfectly wellthat she had said to herself, 'Now then I must take that proud girl downa peg, or she will be no use to anybody;' and I had somehow to put upwith it."
"Drastic!" said Hallin, laughing; "did you comfort yourself byreflecting that it was everybody's fate?"
Her lip twitched with amusement.
"Not for a long time. I used to have the most absurd ideas!--sometimeslooking back I can hardly believe it--perhaps it was partly a queerstate of nerves. When I was at school and got in a passion I used to tryand overawe the girls by shaking my Speaker great-uncle in their faces.And so in hospital; it would flash across me sometimes in a plaintivesort of way that they _couldn't_ know that I was Miss Boyce of Mellor,and had been mothering and ruling the whole of my father's village--orthey wouldn't treat me so. Mercifully I held my tongue. But one day itcame to a crisis. I had had to get things ready for an operation, andhad done very well. Dr. Marshall had paid me even a little complimentall to myself. But then afterwards the patient was some time in comingto, and there had to be hot-water bottles. I had them ready of course;but they were too hot, and in my zeal and nervousness I burnt thepatient's elbow in two places. Oh! the _fuss_, and the scolding, and thehumiliation! When I left the ward that evening I thought I would go homenext day."
"But you didn't?"
"If I could have sat down and thought it out, I should probably havegone. But I couldn't think it out--I was too _dead_ tired. That is thechief feature of your first months in hospital--the utter helplessfatigue at night. You go to bed aching and you wake up aching. If youare healthy as I was, it doesn't hurt you; but, when your time comes tosleep, sleep you _must_. Even that miserable night my head was no sooneron the pillow than I was asleep; and next morning there was all theroutine as usual, and the dread of being a minute late on duty. Thenwhen I got into the ward the Sister looked at me rather queerly and wentout of her way to be kind to me. Oh! I was so grateful to her! I couldhave brushed her boots or done any other menial service for her withdelight. And--then--somehow I pulled through. The enormous interest ofthe work seized me--I grew ambitious--they pushed me onrapidly--everybody seemed suddenly to become my friend instead of myenemy--and I ended by thinking the hospital the most fascinating andengrossing place in the whole world."
"A curious experience," said Hallin. "I suppose you had never obeyed anyone in your life before?"
"Not since I was at school--and then--not much!"
Hallin glanced at her as she lay back in her chair. How richly human theface had grown! It was as forcible as ever in expression and colour, butthat look which had often repelled him in his first acquaintance withher, as of a hard speculative eagerness more like the ardent boy thanthe woman, had very much disappeared. It seemed to him absorbed insomething new--something sad and yet benignant, informed with all thepathos and the pain of growth.
"How long have you been at work to-day?" he asked her.
"I went at eleven last night. I came away at four this afternoon."
Hallin exclaimed, "You had food?"
"Do you think I should let myself starve with my work to do?" she askedhim, with a shade of scorn and her most professional air. "And don'tsuppose that such a case occurs often. It is a very rare thing for us toundertake night-nursing at all."
"Can you tell me what the case was?"
She told him vaguely, describing also in a few words her encounter withDr. Blank.
"I suppose he will make a fuss," she said, with a restless look, "andthat I shall be blamed."
"I should think your second doctor will take care of that!" said Hallin.
"I don't know. I couldn't help it. But it is one of our first principlesnot to question a doctor. And last week too I got the Association intotrouble. A patient I had been nursing for weeks and got quite fond ofhad to be removed to hospital. She asked me to cut her hair. It wasmatted dreadfully, and would have been cut off directly she got to theward. So I cut it, left her all comfortable, and was to come back at oneto meet the doctor and help get her off. When I came, I found the wholecourt in an uproar. The sister of the woman, who had been watching forme, stood on the doorstep, and implored me to go away. The husband hadgone out of his senses with rage because I had cut his wife's hairwithout his consent. 'He'll murder you, Nuss!' said the sister, 'if hesees you! Don't come in!--he's mad--he's _been going round on 'is 'andsand knees on the floor_!'"--Hallin interrupted with a shout of laughter.Marcella laughed too; but to his amazement he saw that her hand shook,and that there were tears in her eyes.
"It's all very well," she said with a sigh, "but I had to come away indisgrace, all the street looking on. And he made such a fuss at theoffice as never was. It was unfortunate--we don't want the people setagainst the nurses. And now Dr. Blank!--I seem to be always getting intoscrapes. It is different from hospital, where everything is settled forone."
Hallin could hardly believe his ears. Such womanish terrors anddepressions from Marcella Boyce! Was she, after all, too young for thework, or was there some fret of the soul reducing her natural force? Hefelt an unwonted impulse of tenderness towards her--such as one mightfeel towards a tired child--and set himself to cheer and rest her.
He had succeeded to some extent, when he saw her give a little start,and following her eyes he perceived that unconsciously his arm, whichwas resting on the table, had pushed into her view a photograph in alittle frame, which had been hitherto concealed from her by a glass offlowers. He would have quietly put it out of sight again, but she sat upin her chair.
"Will you give it me?" she said, putting out her hand.
He gave it her at once.
"Alice brought it home from Miss Raeburn the other day. His aunt madehim sit to one of the photographers who are always besieging public men.We thought it good."
"It is very good," she said, after a pause. "Is the hair really--as greyas that?" She pointed to it.
"Quite. I am very glad that he is going off with Lord Maxwell to Italy.It will be ten days' break for him at any rate. His work this last yearhas been very heavy. He has had his grandfather's to do really, as wellas his own; and this Commission has been a stiff job too. I am rathersorry that he has taken this new post."
"What post?"
"Didn't you hear? They have made him Under-secretary to the HomeDepartment. So that he is now in the Government."
She put back the photograph, and moved her chair a little so as to seemore of the plane trees and the strips of sunset cloud.
"How is Lord Maxwell?" she asked presently.
"Much changed. It might end in a sudden break-up at any time."
Hallin saw a slight contraction pass over her face. He knew that she hadalways felt an affection for Lord Maxwell. Suddenly Marcella lookedhastily round her. Miss Hallin was busy with a little servant at theother end of the room making arrangements for supper.
"Tell me," she said, bending over the arm of her chair and speaking in alow, eager voice, "he is beginning to forget it?"
Hallin looked at her in silence, but his half sad, half ironic smilesuggested an answer from which she turned away.
"If he only would!" she said, speaking almost to herself, with a kind ofimpatience. "He ought to marry, for everybody's sake."
"I see no sign of his marrying--at present," said Hallin, drily.
He began to put some papers under his hand in order. There was a colddignity in his manner which she perfectly understood. Ever since thatday--that never-forgotten day--when he had come to her the morning afterher last interview with Aldous Raeburn--come with reluctance anddislike, because Aldous had asked it of him--and had gone away herfriend, more drawn to her, more touched by her than he had ever been inthe days of the engagement, their relation on this subject had been thesame. His sweetness and kindness to her, his influence over her lifeduring the past eighteen months, had been very great. In that firstinterview, the object of which had been to convey to her a warning onthe subject of the man it was thought s
he might allow herself to marry,something in the manner with which he had attempted his incrediblydifficult task--its simplicity, its delicate respect for herpersonality, its suggestion of a character richer and saintlier thananything she had yet known, and unconsciously revealing itself under thestress of emotion--this something had suddenly broken down his pale,proud companion, had to his own great dismay brought her to tears, andto such confidences, such indirect askings for help and understanding asamazed them both.
Experiences of this kind were not new to him. His life consecrated toideas, devoted to the wresting of the maximum of human service from acrippling physical weakness; the precarious health itself which cut himoff from a hundred ordinary amusements and occupations, and especiallycut him off from marriage--together with the ardent temperament, thecharm, the imaginative insight which had been his cradle-gifts--thesethings ever since he was a lad had made him again and again the guideand prop of natures stronger and stormier than his own. Often theunwilling guide; for he had the half-impatient breathless instincts ofthe man who has set himself a task, and painfully doubts whether he willhave power and time to finish it. The claims made upon him seemed to himoften to cost him physical and brain energy he could ill spare.
But his quick tremulous sympathy rendered him really a defenceless preyin such matters. Marcella threw herself upon him as others had done; andthere was no help for it. Since their first memorable interview, at longintervals, he had written to her and she to him. Of her hospital life,till to-night, she had never told him much. Her letters had been thepassionate outpourings of a nature sick of itself, and for the moment ofliving; full of explanations which really explained little; full too ofthe untaught pangs and questionings of a mind which had never given anysustained or exhaustive effort to any philosophical or social question,and yet was in a sense tortured by them all--athirst for an impossiblejustice, and aflame for ideals mocked first and above all by thewriter's own weakness and defect. Hallin had felt them interesting, sad,and, in a sense, fine; but he had never braced himself to answer themwithout groans. There were so many other people in the world in the sameplight!
Nevertheless, all through the growth of friendship one thing had neveraltered between them from the beginning--Hallin's irrevocable judgmentof the treatment she had bestowed on Aldous Raeburn. Never throughoutthe whole course of their acquaintance had he expressed that judgment toher in so many words. Notwithstanding, she knew perfectly well both thenature and the force of it. It lay like a rock in the stream of theirfriendship. The currents of talk might circle round it, imply it, glanceoff from it; they left it unchanged. At the root of his mind towardsher, at the bottom of his gentle sensitive nature, there was asternness which he often forgot--she never.
This hard fact in their relation had insensibly influenced her greatly,was constantly indeed working in and upon her, especially since thechances of her nursing career had brought her to settle in thisdistrict, within a stone's throw of him and his sister, so that she sawthem often and intimately. But it worked in different ways.Sometimes--as to-night--it evoked a kind of defiance.
A minute or two after he had made his remark about Aldous, she said tohim suddenly,
"I had a letter from Mr. Wharton to-day. He is coming to tea with meto-morrow, and I shall probably go to the House on Friday with EdithCraven to hear him speak."
Hallin gave a slight start at the name. Then he said nothing; but wenton sorting some letters of the day into different heaps. His silenceroused her irritation.
"Do you remember," she said, in a low, energetic voice, "that I told youI could never be ungrateful, never forget what he had done?"
"Yes, I remember," he said, not without a certain sharpness of tone."You spoke of giving him help if he ever asked it of you--has he askedit?"
She explained that what he seemed to be asking was Louis Craven's help,and that his overtures with regard to the _Labour Clarion_ wereparticularly opportune, seeing that Louis was pining to be able tomarry, and was losing heart, hope, and health for want of some fixedemployment. She spoke warmly of her friends and their troubles, andHallin's inward distaste had to admit that all she said was plausible.Since the moment in that strange talk which had drawn them together,when she had turned upon him with the passionate cry--"I see what youmean, perfectly! but I am not going to marry Mr. Wharton, so don'ttrouble to warn me--for the matter of that he has warned mehimself:--but my _gratitude_ he _has_ earned, and if he asks for it Iwill _never_ deny it him "--since that moment there had been no word ofWharton between them. At the bottom of his heart Hallin distrusted her,and was ashamed of himself because of it. His soreness and jealousy forhis friend knew no bounds. "If that were to come on again"--he wassaying to himself now, as she talked to him--"I could not bear it, Icould not forgive her!"
He only wished that she would give up talking about Wharton altogether.But, on the contrary, she would talk of him--and with a curiouspersistence. She must needs know what Hallin thought of his career inParliament, of his prospects, of his powers as a speaker. Hallinanswered shortly, like some one approached on a subject for which hecares nothing.
"Yet, of course, it is not that; it is injustice!" she said to herself,with vehemence. "He _must_ care; they are his subjects, his intereststoo. But he will not look at it dispassionately, because--"
So they fell out with each other a little, and the talk dragged. Yet,all the while, Marcella's inner mind was conscious of quite differentthoughts. How good it was to be here, in this room, beside these twopeople! She must show herself fractious and difficult with Hallinsometimes; it was her nature. But in reality, that slight and fragileform, that spiritual presence were now shrined in the girl's eagerreverence and affection. She felt towards him as many a Catholic hasfelt towards his director; though the hidden yearning to be led by himwas often oddly covered, as now, by an outer self-assertion. Perhaps herquarrel with him was that he would not lead her enough--would not tellher precisely enough what she was to do with herself.