Her tea came in. She threw aside her hat and coat, and toasted her knees while she read the newspaper. A queer hurry and unrest had taken possession of her. She kept worrying herself. Should she go to London to-morrow? Aunt Sophy had stirred her by the mere mention of London. Should she go? Should she stay at home?
There was no harm in going. Shopping, tea with Barbara perhaps—nothing more. She would stop at Liddleshorn and ask Nancy or Egbert’s wife to go with her. There would surely be safety in that. Safety! The word made her blench and shrink. She instantly suspected herself. So there was really danger!
She wasn’t sure of herself—not yet: wasn’t sure—would never be. Wasn’t it more than possible that, directly she was in London alone, unchecked, unwatched, she would go straight to Marquise Mansions, not meaning to enter? But, at the foot of the stairs, wasn’t it certain, miserably certain, that she would go up? If she saw him! Then—that she admitted, with a violent shame and misery—everything would depend on his attitude. The woman in brown! The woman—didn’t count.
She wouldn’t think, wouldn’t speculate, wouldn’t decide just now. It would be premature to decide yet. There was no hurry.
She picked up the paper, which had dropped to the floor. Then she remembered that it had been the paper which had tempted her to leave Jethro before. Suppose Edred’s name should be on the next sheet! That would settle everything—so she feared.
Would it never end—this evil, incomprehensible witchery? Wasn’t she ever going to be safe? Was her life to be spent in veering between the happy lethargy of Folly Corner and the periodic joy and black misery of life with Edred? She despaired of herself. She hadn’t any shame, any self-respect, any modesty—any of those cold, praiseworthy qualities which romance has for centuries built up and labeled “feminine character.”
She read on. One word, at last, became more than a dancing string of letters. It was the word Sutton. Here at last, after fifteen months of vigilant watching, was a sign. Here, beneath her eyes, was an indirect message from Marquise Mansions.
Had he been knighted or sent to penal servitude? Either was equally likely—in their mode of life. She read. It was a highly respectable announcement: he was a member of the County Council—a prominent member—and he had been agitating about some strike—yes, the plasterers’ strike. Whatever sympathy had he with plasterers? She laughed softly, and put the paper down. He was evidently prosperous, this sleek minion of Edred’s. The paragraph was redolent of prosperity. He was spoken of deferentially as a promising man—a coming man. She knew his future. He’d go into Parliament, pick his way up the social ladder.
There was no word of Edred. The omission was a knell on her brow.
She must go to London to-morrow. It would be safe. She wasn’t quite so weak as she supposed. After all, there really would not be much danger in going to Marquise Mansions—just to inquire of the porter.