When Pauline went up to her room late that evening she gave Verena a very cold good-night. Her little fire was still burning, for nurse had taken care of it. Verena heard her lock the door. Had she not done so her sister would have gone to her, and begged and prayed, as such a sweet girl might, for the confidence of Pauline. Verena had to get into bed feeling lonely and unhappy. Just as she was doing so she heard a firm step walking down the corridor. A hand turned the handle of Pauline’s door, and Verena heard Pen’s voice say:
“It’s me, Paulie. It’s me. Let me in, Paulie.”
Verena instantly opened her own door.
“Go away, Pen,” she said. “Go straight back to your bed. You are not to go near Pauline to-night.”
“Yes, but I want her,” said Pauline, opening the door and putting out her head.
“Very well,” said Verena. “You shall see her with me. I will ring the bell and ask nurse to fetch Aunt Sophy.”
Pauline gave a shrill laugh.
“It isn’t worth all that fuss. Go to bed, Pen. We shall have plenty of time for our chat to-morrow morning.”
Penelope looked disgusted. Verena stood in the passage until her stout little figure had disappeared. She then turned, hoping that Pauline would speak to her; but Pauline had gone into her room and locked the door.
Now, Pauline Dale was at this time going through a curious phase. She was scarcely to be blamed for her conduct, for what she had lately lived through had produced a sort of numbness of her faculties, which time seemed to have no intention of restoring to her. To look at her face now no one would suppose her to be in the ordinary sense of the word an invalid; for she was rosy, her eyes were bright, her appetite was good, and she had plenty of strength. Nevertheless there was a certain part of her being which was numb and cold and half-dead. She was not frightened about anything; but she knew that she had behaved as no right-minded or honorable girl should have done. Verena’s words that afternoon had roused her, and had given her a slight degree of pain. She lay down on her bed without undressing. She left the blind up so that the moon could shine through her small window, and she kept repeating to herself at intervals through the night the words that had haunted her when she was at Easterhaze: “Wash and be clean.” It seemed to Pauline that the sea was drawing her. The insistent voice of the sea was becoming absolutely unpleasant. It echoed and echoed in her tired brain: “Wash—wash and be clean.” After her accident she had hated the sea while she was there, but now she wanted to get back to it. She dreaded it and yet she was hungry for it.