"No, thank you. Really, there is nothing you can do," said Laura. "You see, there is the nurse and Miss Panton, and myself; besides your aunt, if she comes. We should only run over each other."
Laura's voice was no less pleasant than before, but Caroline felt dismissed. The vague impression of that first, odd moment became startlingly vivid again. But even now she could not be sure that it was not all imagination—the effect of her own self-consciousness, after what had passed between herself and Laura's lover.
As she walked down the drive she saw the jobbing gardener had returned and was continuing to lay sods on the ground where the privet hedge had been. The thought passed through her mind that it looked like a new grave fresh sodded. Then she began to plan in her mind what she should say to Aunt Creddle, and to picture how that good-hearted woman would take it. At last she remembered her declaration only a few hours ago—could it be only a few hours ago?—that she would never enter Uncle Creddle's house again.
Now, it did not seem to matter. The heat of her pride and anger had died down and she began to see that her love for Godfrey was too deep to be destroyed by anger or even contempt. He had planted it in her heart and she must carry it about always. Neither of them by any act of theirs could take it away from her.
But she was not actively and vitally miserable. Her being was simply soaked in a dull unhappiness which made her quite indifferent to the healthy pricking of small annoyances, so that when Mr. and Mrs. Graham passed her with the barest of cold salutations, and never stopped to ask for news, even at this sad crisis, she did not care.
She was finding out the truth of what Miss Panton had said in the kitchen of the cottage—that every time a human being really feels it does not matter, he or she has a bitter foretaste of death, which is what makes this of all emotions the most truly sad.
Even when she reached Aunt Creddle's, whose words and exclamations fell about her ears like hail, she remained the same—delivering her message, then going on at once to take her place in the pay-box.
Lillie had already heard the news and was rather shocked that she should wish to remain. "Anybody can see you've been crying. Now, don't you think about me, Carrie. I don't mind stopping a bit."
"No, thanks, I'd rather be here. After all, it's my job. And they don't want me—there are plenty there without me," said Caroline.
But Lillie urged her at least to go somewhere and have a nice hot cup of tea and a rest, even if she were not needed at the Cottage; then at last departed, rebuffed and slightly irritated.