There was a letter already written which she had not yet posted; now she opened it and added a postscript: "Father, dear," she wrote, "I am awfully—awfully unhappy, and can't write to you about it. But when you get this, please send me a telegram saying you want me home at once. Trust me that this is wiser. Don't delay, dear daddy."
The pen dropped from her fingers after she had re-directed her letter, and she sat quite still looking blankly at it. She had told Edith she did not love Edward, that she had never thought of him like that. If there could be degrees in this abject wretchedness, hers was a depth unplumbable. Yet this colossal lie seemed to her necessary. Edith, believing that her cousin loved Edward, yet refused to release him of her own will. So she was to have him, she must be given what was already hers, handsomely, largely. It would be wicked, even at the cost of this denial, to give him her with a stab, so to speak.
Emptiness, utter loneliness self-ordained. She must tell somebody about her misery; she must pour out her unshared grief, for the burden of it was intolerable. With dry blind eyes, with the groping instinct to seek, just to seek, she threw herself on her knees by her bed. She knew not what or whom she sought; there was just this blind unerring instinct in her soul, the instinct of the homing pigeon.
Mrs. Hancock put up her parasol when the three cushions were perfectly adjusted, and the car slid slowly forward.
"I think we shall have time to go round by the Old Mill," she said, "though we are a little late in starting. I wonder, Elizabeth, if you could make an effort to be more punctual, dear. I don't think there is a person in the world who hates blaming people as much as I do, so I don't want or mean to blame you. I only ask you to make a little effort. It is so easy to form a habit, and while you are about it you might just as well form the habit of punctuality as of unpunctuality."
"I am so sorry, Aunt Julia," said she. "I—I wasn't thinking about the time."
"No, dear, that is just it. I want you to think about the time a little more. There is just a little touch of selfishness and inconsiderateness in keeping other people waiting, and selfishness is so horrible, is it not? Edith is never unpunctual, though all the time her ankle was bad she got downstairs very slowly. But she allowed for that. What was the engrossing employment to-day that kept you?"
"I was saying my prayers, Aunt Julia, At least, I was trying to."
Mrs. Hancock laid her hand on Elizabeth's.
"My dear, that is a very good reason," she said, "though I am afraid it means that you forgot to say them when you got up. It's a very good plan, Elizabeth, to say them the moment you get out of bed. Then they are off your mind. Oh, what a beautiful fresh air there is this morning! I think we might almost have my window half down, and yours quite down. Your prayers, yes. And to think that when you came you didn't want to go to church at all. But I felt sure that Mr. Martin—why, there he is, do you see, in a red coat, playing golf? Fancy, what a coincidence! He is dining with us to-night, and I must be sure to tell him that we saw him just the very moment that I was speaking of him. But the only way to get through the day's work is to do everything punctually, prayers and all. Then when bedtime comes you are ready for it, with nothing left undone to keep you awake. And now, my dear, I have a great deal to tell you, and I'm sure I look forward to doing so. It is almost as great a pleasure to me as it will be to you to hear about all the plans I have made for you."