§ 2
The first leaves of autumn were beginning to fall when Catherine returned to Bockley after a fortnight at Hastings. Day after day of glorious September weather had covered her cheeks and arms and hands with freckles: her hair, too, was fluffed and shining with continual sea-bathing: her general appearance was rather wild and undomesticated for such a place as Bockley. She returned on Saturday night, and Sunday found her waiting outside the Baptist Church at Upton Rising. Evening service was over at eight o’clock, and she judged that Helen would be there.
Helen greeted her at the church door.
“Only you?” said Catherine.
Helen nodded. “The others went for a walk.... It’s a fine night—let’s take a tram to the Forest.”
The trams of the London County Council ran along the end of the road. They boarded one; it was full, and they had to stand on the top.
“You look well,” remarked Helen.
“Oh, I’m all right,” replied Catherine, and the conversation languished.
What ensued after that would always in Catherine’s mind be inextricably bound up with the sway and purr of trams along the high road.
“George has gone away,” remarked Helen, à propos of nothing.
“Oh?”
“His firm’s given him a job in Manchester. A good opening, it seems.... I got a letter from him yesterday. He enclosed a note for you: I suppose he didn’t know your address.... I believe I’ve got it on me....”
She fished in her hand-bag and extracted an envelope, from which she took a folded half-sheet of paper and handed the latter to Catherine.
It was rapidly getting dusk, but the lights in the tram were not yet lit. On every alternate tramway standard hung an arc lamp, and these were now fizzing and spluttering into pale brilliance. Catherine read the note (it was roughly written in copying pencil) in quick spasms as the car swirled along.
MY DEAR CATHIE,
As you will perceive, I have got shifted to Manchester, where I shall no longer have the pleasure of your delightful society, which, as you will not doubt, is a great loss to me personally. However, I am likely to enjoy my stay here: there are some splendid girls working in the same office with me, though none of them has your own Inimitable red hair. If there is one thing I regret it is that the before-mentioned red hair has occasionally led me to say things I did not mean and to do things I did not mean to do. I am sure that you, with your wonderful capacity for understanding, will grasp what I am trying to sketch out. We have had some interesting discussions together during the last few months, and for these at least (not to mention the spiritual inspiration given me by the passionate flame of your hair) I am deeply grateful.
I hope you will always believe me to be what I am, viz., your sincere admirer,
GEORGE TRANT.
P.S.—My lodgings are not permanent, so there would be little point in enclosing my address.
Catherine was slow to grasp the full meaning of the note. As it dawned upon her her lips tightened, and she gripped fiercely the rail against which she was leaning. The tram lurched to a standstill, and there was the usual scramble to get down the stairs. “High Wood,” the conductor called out.
“Come on,” said Helen, and they descended.
In the Forest glades the night air was cool and sweet. For some distance they walked on in silence. Catherine was the first to speak. They had reached a clearing, and under the open sky the daylight still lingered.
“I daresay you’d like to read it,” said Catherine. She held out the note at arm’s length.
Helen gave a queer ejaculatory laugh.
“I’ve already done so,” she said.
“What?”
“Oh, I know it’s not quite the thing to read other people’s letters.... But I wanted to know what ... what he would say to you, and I thought perhaps you wouldn’t show me.”
Catherine crumpled up the note and put it in her pocket.
“Well, you know, anyway,” she said gloomily.
They passed again into the cool Forest glades.
“I was right,” said Helen, quietly. “I knew he’d write you something like that. He’s good at that kind of letter-writing ... sort of cheap cleverness he excels at I’d half a mind not to let you see it.”
There came a long pause. They had reached the high road to Chingford before it was broken.
Catherine suddenly took the crumpled letter from her pocket, and began tearing it up into minute fragments.
“See,” she cried passionately, “you can tell him this is what I did with his letter I You can tell him there’s better fellows in the world than he is, and Cathie Weston isn’t going to break her heart over him! ... Tell him I’m not a soppy little schoolgirl.”
She flung the pieces on the ground, and began stamping on them.
“You’re being silly,” said Helen, quietly.
“And tell him,” went on Catherine, “that if he thinks he’s under an obligation to me, he’s made a mistake. I’m grateful to him—for letting me see what he really is.”
Her words rattled like the passage of a lorry over granite setts.
“Come on,” said Helen, “we’ll get to Chingford, and take the train back.”
“You’ll tell him?”
“I don’t promise. I think you’d better forget all about him ... after all, you can’t do anything....”
“I don’t want to! I merely want him to know that I don’t mind.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. He’ll know that if he hears nothing from you.”
“He won’t. He’ll think he’s left a broken-hearted girl to cry over him.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“... because I don’t believe in being broken-hearted. I don’t think it’s possible to die of a broken heart. I’m certain I shan’t, anyway. I won’t let any man mess about with my life. It’ll take a pretty big misfortune to make life not worth living to me. If he’s tired of me I’m just as tired of him. Tell him that!”
“This way ...” said Helen, guiding her into the Station Road. “We’ll just be able to catch the 9.45....”