IV
It was really spring now, a wild, gay April day, and Miss Torrance felt unusually restless. She was wearing a new suit, dark blue, very plain, very smart, and what with that and the spring in the air, she felt inclined to festivity. She thought it would be nice if she was going to meet somebody for lunch. Well, of course she wasn’t, but instead of going to the tea room where she had been going for years, she went to a near-by hotel.
The first person she saw there was Olive, very cozily lunching with Mr. Robertson.[Pg 189]
Miss Torrance got away without being seen, and went back to the office, for she did not want any lunch now. She went home a little earlier than usual, but she left nothing undone that should have been done.
Olive noticed nothing amiss with her friend. When she left the office, she didn’t hurry. She was glad to go slowly through the sweet afternoon. The western sky was clear and clean, ready for the down going of the sun, and the quiet and beautiful light of that most beautiful hour shone full in her face. Seeing her at that moment, you could well understand why poor Mr. Martin had been so suddenly overwhelmed.
She gave a last glance at the sky before opening the front door. Then she entered the house and went upstairs. The door was closed, so she knocked.
“Come in!” answered Miss Torrance.
She was on her knees, packing her trunk.
“What are you doing?” cried Olive.
“I’m packing,” answered Miss Torrance. “I’m—going away.”
“But why? Where?”
“I saw you!” cried Miss Torrance. “I saw you—with that man!”
Olive was silent, not by any means from guilt or confusion, but because she was struggling against an unwonted anger. She thought of a good many things to say in regard to this unwarrantable interference with her affairs, but she did not say one of them. Instead, she looked down at Miss Torrance, who was working away in hot haste, and every one of her friend’s generosities and queer little kindnesses rose up before her. She crossed the room and knelt by the other woman’s side, putting an arm about her shoulders.
“Oh, my dear!” she said gently. “If I’ve done anything to—to hurt you, can’t you forgive me?”
“It’s not that,” said Miss Torrance, in a hard, cold voice. “I’ve nothing to forgive. It’s simply that I’ve—I’ve made a fool of myself.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she pretended not to know it. “I’ve made the worst sort of fool of myself—and I will not face that man again! I will not!”
“But, darling,” said Olive gently, “if you feel like that, we’ll both go.”
“No!” cried Miss Torrance, with a loud sob. “I will not come between you and your precious Mr. Martin!”
“What do you mean?” said Olive. “I don’t—” She stopped. “That’s silly, darling,” she went on, in an airy sort of way. “I’ve forgotten all about Mr. Martin, and he’s gone off to sea and forgotten all about me, long ago.”
“He has not!” said Miss Torrance. “He wrote you two letters, and I tore them up. Take your arm away, please, and let me get up!”
Olive, too, had risen.
“My letters!” she said faintly. “I didn’t think you would—”
“Well, now you know,” said Miss Torrance. “Now you know what a—a beast I am!”
“Stop!” said Olive.
“I won’t!” said Miss Torrance. “I pretended to myself that I wanted to save you, but to-day, when I saw you with that man, I knew that I was nothing but a jealous, meddlesome old—”
Suddenly they were in each other’s arms, clinging to each other and weeping.
“Of course I’m going with you!” said Olive. “You might have known!”