"I'll have—I'll have—I'll make my father come again and force them from you."
The man on the couch laughed at her. "Do ye think your father could do ought about it? While I mean Ben to stay here, here he'll stay. He married Connie because ah gave him leave. The boy's no man yet, and he's been living in sin. It must be as the Lord wills, I only wait upon His guidance."
His voice became suddenly flat with weariness.
"Go now and ask my wife to come to me."
She felt her way to the door and knew that she was defeated. She had done nothing, less than nothing. What could she do against the fires that consumed that fierce, relentless cripple? He puzzled her. He puzzled her. Her father had found him shrewd and grasping, well able to strike a good bargain. Her mother had found him strange but interesting, a self-educated man of unusual refinement for his environment. And she—surely he was sincere? He felt sincere. Yet, what was one to do for Connie?
She groped her way towards the kitchen door that thrust a bar of light across the blackness of the passage.
The postman leant against the table, a slab of saucer-custard in his hand, a mug of tea beside him. She remembered now her letter to her mother. What use was there to send it? They would never understand. She delivered her message to Mrs. Todd, and received in return a letter addressed to
"Miss Constance Hammond,
Miller's Rise,
Marshington,"