She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge. No one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the other side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up at the front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before a window—move almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung open by Jehane; Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage.
“Well?”
The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly.
“I thought I’d come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind this morning.”
“Did you? What made you do that?”
Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness and defiance. She had come full of pity. “I came because I was nervous. You hadn’t written for more than a month. I hope—— I hope,——”
“Come inside,” said Jehane. “I can’t talk to you out there. You can stop your hoping.”
Once inside, the appearance of the house told its story. It looked bare. From the sideboard the silver—mostly presents of Jehane’s first marriage—had vanished. The walls were stripped of all ornaments which had a negotiable value. In the drawing-room there was an empty space where there had once been a piano. Only the carefully curtained windows kept up the pretence of trim prosperity. Jehane led Nan from room to room without a word and the children, shuffling behind, followed.
“Now you’ve seen for yourself,” she said, “and a nice fool you must think me after my letters. I’ve lied for him and sold my jewelry for him. I’ve done without servants. I’ve crept out at night like a thief to the pawnbrokers, when there wasn’t any money and there were debts to be settled. And the last thing I heard before he left was that he’d stolen the thousand pounds I lent him. And this—— this is what I get.”
“Before he left?”