“Yes, we’re going away—both of us,” she said. “We’re going to the village.”
“To live on air and sea-water?” inquired the other bitterly.
“No,” rejoined Nance gently, “to live in lodgings and to work for our living. I’ve got a place already at the Pontifex shop and Mr. Traherne’s going to pay Linda for playing the organ. It’ll be better like that. I couldn’t let her go on here after what happened yesterday.”
Her voice trembled but she continued to look Miss Doorm straight in the face.
“You were away on purpose yesterday, Rachel,” she said gravely, “so that those two might be together. It was only some scruple, or fear, on Mr. Renshaw’s part that stopped him meeting her in the house. How often this has happened before—his seeing her like this—I don’t know, and I don’t want to know—I only pray to God that no harm’s been done. If it has been done, the child’s ruin’s on our head. I cannot understand you, Rachel, I cannot understand you.”
Miss Doorm’s haggard mouth opened as if to utter a cry but she breathed deeply and restrained it. Her gaunt fingers twined and untwined themselves and the wind, blowing at her skirt, displayed the tops of her old-fashioned boots with their worn, elastic sides.
“So she’s separated us, has she?” she hissed. “I thought she would. She was born for that. And it’s nothing to you that I’ve nursed you and cared for you and planned for you since you were a baby? Nothing! Nothing at all! She comes between us now as her mother came before. I knew it would happen so! I knew it would! She’s just like her mother—soft and clinging—soft and white—and this is the end of it.”
Her voice changed to a low, almost frightened tone.