The contact, however, seemed to have upset the little girl, for she stood looking around the group with dubious eyes. The women waited patiently, smiling kindly at her confusion. Once, indeed, Mrs. Dunn began “Now then, dearie”—in her colourless tone, but was instantly elbowed into silence by her sister. Again the child looked round, caught Martha Jane’s appealing glance, and broke into a brilliant smile. Darting forward with the same butterfly lightness, she thrust the note into her uncertain hand.
The world swung round Mrs. Clapham; the ground tilted under her feet. As for the Chorus, its feelings had vent in an actual scream, which was followed at once by a paralysed silence. Only Emma retained her satisfied air, and her hands stayed quiet at her waist.... And then, out of the mists surrounding and overwhelming her, Mrs. Clapham heard Martha Jane’s laugh....
“’Tain’t for me, dearie ... you’ve made a mistake; thanking you kindly, all the same!...” The laugh was nearer this time, and a thin, long-fingered hand came under the charwoman’s nose. “No use being dishonest under the circs!” said Martha Jane. “Here, Ann Clapham! You may as well have what’s your own.”
The thin hand thrust the letter into the groping plump one, and then Martha’s face backed away with a twisted smile. “Sorry I can’t come scrubbing your floors,” she finished, discordantly cheerful, “but I don’t mind going so far as to wish you luck!”
Her voice broke on a note like that of a cracked dish, and she edged quickly away with trembling lips. The child ran after her, however, saying “She tore my frill! Look, my frill’s all torn!” and casting angry glances at the imperturbable Emma; and Martha Jane, stopped by the clutching hands, made a valiant effort to struggle with her tears, and bent herself to the woes of little Miss Baines.
Right over Mrs. Clapham and to the ends of the earth the sun came out for ever and ever. Her hands shook as they tried to open the envelope and failed, and the Chorus grabbed it and did it for her. In the same piecemeal way they read the letter aloud, peering over her elbow and under her arm, while she laughed and wept and gasped, and thanked God and the governors and the world in general. Of what was actually in the letter she heard very little, except the fact that the house was undoubtedly hers. Mrs. James, of course, was inclined to dwell upon the flowers of speech which she guessed to have emanated from Mr. Baines, expressing the Committee’s appreciation of the successful candidate’s worth, and wishing her happiness under her new roof. The other women, not being burdened by an ideal, dwelt practically if ecstatically upon such details as the allowance and the coal; but Mrs. Clapham heard little of either. All she did was to exclaim “Ain’t that grand, now? That’s real nice! Ay, that’s right kind!” whenever the rising voices seemed to expect it. All that mattered for the moment was the fact that the dream had not failed her, that never for an instant had her confidence been misplaced. She had been sure that the right things happened in the right way at exactly the right time, and now she could go on being sure as long as she lived. People got what they wanted all right if only they had enough faith—that was another beautiful thing that the letter had proved true. She forgot the long wait and Martha’s clowning and Emma’s sinister looks, and only remembered that all was right with the world and God emphatically in His smiling heaven.
And in the background Martha Jane bent to the complaining child, murmuring soothingly and making quaint little jokes with quivering lips. Taking the crooked gilt pin from her own dirty lace, she fastened the snowy frill of little Miss Baines. It had been a bad moment for Martha Jane when she was offered the letter by mistake, but there was no sense in blaming the child. She wasn’t “the almshouse sort,” she reminded herself again; and again, because she wasn’t the almshouse sort, was able to raise a smile....
She pressed the pin-point into a safe place (pricking herself again), and the little girl, with a word of thanks, skipped away down the street. The women around Mrs. Clapham were falling silent at last, too exhausted to find anything fresh to read or invent. Behind them Emma was receding rapidly up the hill, making her way back to the dark house and the dying ferns.... Martha Jane braced herself for a final effort.
“Off again, are you?” she called after the retreating figure. “The vanishing trick, eh? as per usual?... Ay, well, you got all you wanted, I reckon!” she laughed harshly. “You were in at the death-rattle, after all!”
Emma, now on her steps, turned at the last words, and it seemed to her tormentor that her smile deepened. That was all the answer she made, however—if it could be called an answer. Even as Martha Jane watched, she began to fade, dwindling and gleaming and glooming, until at last she was out of sight.