13
The house was shut up for the night.
Miriam looked up at the clock dizzily as she drank the last of her coffee. It marked half-past eleven. Fräulein had told her to be ready at a quarter to twelve. Her hands felt large and shaky and her feet were cold. The room was stifling—bare and brown in the gaslight. She left it and crept through the hall where her trunk stood and up the creaking stairs. She turned up the gas. Emma lay asleep with red eyelids and cheeks. Miriam did not look at Ulrica. Hurriedly and desolately she packed her bag. She was going home empty-handed. She had achieved nothing. Fräulein had made not the slightest effort to keep her. She was just nothing again—with her Saratoga trunk and her hand-bag. Harriett had achieved. Harriett. She was just going home with nothing to say for herself.
“The carriage is here, my child. Make haste.”
Miriam pushed things hurriedly into her bag. Fräulein had gone downstairs.
She was ready. She looked numbly round the room. Emma looked very far away. She turned out the gas. The dim light from the landing shone into the room. She stood for a moment in the doorway looking back. The room seemed to be empty. There seemed to be nothing in it but the black screen standing round the bed that was no longer hers.
“Good-bye,” she murmured and hurried downstairs.
In the hall Fräulein began to talk at once, talking until they were seated side by side in the dark cab.
Then Miriam gazed freely at the pale profile shining at her side. Poor Fräulein Pfaff, getting old.
Fräulein began to ask about Miriam’s plans for the future. Miriam answered as to an equal, elaborating a little account of circumstances at home, and the doings of her sisters. As she spoke she felt that Fräulein envied her her youth and her family at home in England—and she raised her voice a little and laughed easily and moved, crossing her knees in the cab.