“I am glad that I gave her to your father myself,” said Flower, in a queer, still voice. “I’m glad of that. Is David anywhere about?”
“No. He’s at the farm. He’s to sleep there to-night with Bob and Bunny, for there mustn’t be a stir of noise in the house.”
“Well, well, I’d have liked to say good-by to David. You’re quite sure, Fly, that you all think it was I made your father ill?”
“Why, of course. You know it was.”
“Yes, I know. Good-by, Fly.”
“Good-night, you mean. Don’t you want something to eat?”
“No. I’m not hungry now. It isn’t good-night; it’s good-by.”
Flower walked slowly down the long, low, dark room, opened the door, shut it after her, and disappeared.
Fly stood for a moment in an indifferent attitude at the table. She was relieved that Flower had at last left her, and took no notice of her words.
Flower went back to her room. Again she shut and locked her door. The queer mood which had been on her all day, half repentance, half petulance, had completely changed. It takes a great deal to make some people repent, but Flower Dalrymple was now indeed and in truth facing the consequences of her own actions. The words she had said to Fly were quite true. She had looked at herself. Sometimes that sight is very terrible. Her fingers trembled, her whole body shook, but she did not take a moment to make up her mind. They all hated her, but not more than she hated herself. They were quite right to hate her, quite right to feel horror at her presence. Her mother had often spoken to her of the consequences of unbridled passion, but no words that her mother could ever have used came up to the grim reality. Of course, she must go away, and at once. She sat down on the side of her bed, pressed her hand to her forehead, and reflected. In the starved state she was in, the little drop of wine she had taken had brought on a violent headache. For a time she found it difficult to collect her thoughts.