But despite the minute definiteness of it all, she had a most queer feeling of unreality. She told herself that this would probably be her home until she died, and that there was nothing to complain of—she ought to be ashamed to complain. But the words which were forming on the surface of her thoughts seemed to have no relation whatever to anything going on underneath. She could not, or would not try to see deep down, because that odd sense of unreality rather frightened her; but something rose up like an emanation—a presentiment, she would have called it, had she allowed herself to do so. But the whole idea of her living here seemed so pervaded with bleak unreality, as she stood there looking out of the window, that it seemed to be wiped out of the scheme of actual human happenings. Then from that under-swirl of feeling rose one definite thought: "I shall never live here."
She turned abruptly from the window, bracing herself by saying aloud: "Bless me! I'm getting like the old women in Back Hoggate. I shall soon be counting my ailing relatives over if a spark flies out of the candle." But even this comparison of herself with the superstitious inhabitants of the oldest part of Thorhaven did not drive away that unpleasant feeling, and she felt relieved by the sound of a human voice calling up the stairs: "Miss Ethel! I've brought the key. And I have put your lunch ready, and left the kettle on. I thought you might be glad of a cup of tea."
The voice, fresh, confident, full of abounding vitality, dispelled those queer sensations of Miss Ethel's. She came to the top of the stairs and thanked Caroline, for she had learned that she could no longer take good and willing service for granted. The extent, indeed, to which she had been bowed by circumstances, showed in her anxious, almost humble manner, as she hastened to add—despite her annoyance about the gossip concerning Caroline and Godfrey: "I hope you found the small beef-steak pie I left for your dinner? I forgot to tell you it was in the safe."
"Oh, I got all I wanted, thank you," said Caroline, adding as she went again down the passage: "I'll come straight in, Miss Ethel."
For she had felt very sorry for these two women as she busied herself about the house all the morning, doing her best to make things cheerful against their return. But on the way here, a few minutes ago, she had met Laura Temple on the road, and that put everything else out of her mind. She actually held her breath as they approached, wondering what would happen. If Laura had heard any of the gossip that was about the town her salutation—supposing she gave one at all—would be different.
But her pleasant "Good morning, Miss Raby," was just the same as usual; and though there might be a stiffness about Miss Panton's greeting, that lady never had been cordial.
But the brief encounter had left Caroline disturbed, confused, breathless—as if she had been running too fast for her strength. Her knees shook under her as she went on her way towards Emerald Avenue, though she looked just as usual—able to exchange a chaffing word with a boy of her acquaintance. For she, no less than other human beings, would be obliged to go through the tremendous crises of her emotional existence in the street, or at a party, or in a tram-car—her real self kept close, enshrouded by that strange cloak which hides every man from his neighbour.
Still it was obvious that Laura knew nothing. The marriage really had been put off for the reason stated. No one could doubt that who saw Laura's face even casually in the street.
Caroline had nearly reached Emerald Avenue when it occurred to her that Laura was probably going to the Cottage and would need her key. But she could not run after her with it. She felt a physical revulsion at the bare thought of speaking to a girl who was engaged to Godfrey—talking to him—receiving his kisses——
It had seemed almost easy, that first night on the cliff top, to behave decently about it all. But then everything had turned different. She could scarcely realize now how it had then seemed so clear, so entirely possible at once to give him up, and to be always certain of his love. The difficulties and confusions all came afterwards.