CHAPTER VII

stoleanervouslookatWilsonashehelpedherout,buthisfacewasablank.Theboyonherothersidehadanexpression,shethought,asthoughunderhappierconditionshemighthavelethimselfgoinasmirk,andsheturnedhereyesawaywithalittlesickfeeling.Didtheyknowalready,allofthem,thatshehadleftheraunt'saweekago?But,indeed,thatseemedasmallthingnowcomparedwiththethingsshehaddonesince. "I'madeadgirl,"thoughtIngeborg,asshepassedbeneathherparents'porch. Theservantsbroughtinherluggage,offwhichinhernewnessatdeceitshehadnotthoughttoscrapethecontinentallabels,andshecrossedthehall,treadingonthedimsplashesoflovelyblurredcolourthatfellfromthevaststainedglasswindowsontothestoneflagsofitsfloor.Itwasthenoblesthall,asbareofstuffsandcarpetsasthecathedralitself,andshelookedmorethaninsignificantgoingacrossittothecarvedoakdoorthatopenedintothewidepanelledpassageleadingtothedrawing-room,alittlefigurebracedtoamiserablecourage,thesmallestthingtobegoingtodefypowersofwhichthismagnificencewasonlyoneoftheexpressions. Hermotherwasasusualonhersofanearafirewhoseheat,thatwarmday,wasmitigatedbythewindowsbeingwideopen.Besideherwasherownparticulartablewiththeusualflowers,needlework,devotionalbooks,andbiographiesofgoodmen.Itwasdifficulttobelievehermotherhadgotoffthatsofaninetimestogotobed,haddressedandundressedandhadmeals—thirty-sixofthem,countedIngeborgmechanically,whileshelookedaboutfortheBishop,ifyouexcludedthebeforebreakfasttea,forty-fiveifyoudidn't—sinceshesawherlast,soimmovabledidsheappear,soexactlyinthesamepositionandcomposedintothesamelinesasshehadbeenninedaysbefore.Theroomwasfullofthesingingofthrushes,quitedeafeninglyfull,assheopenedthedoor,forthewindowsgavestraightintothegreenandsoppygardenanditwasadayofmanyworms.Judithwasmakingteaasfarawayfromthefireasshecouldget,andtherewasnosignoftheBishop. "Isthatyou,Ingeborg?"saidhermother,turningherface,grownpalewithyearsofbeingshutup,tothedoor. Ingeborg'smotherhadfoundthesofaasotherpeoplefindsalvation.Shewasnotill.Shehadsimplydiscoveredinitarefugeandaverypresenthelpinallthetroublesandturmoiloflife,andinespecialashieldandbucklerwhenitcametodealingwiththeBishop.Itisnoteasyforthemarried,shehadfoundwhenfirstcastingaboutforone,tohitonarefugefromeachotherthatshallbehonourabletoboth.Inamomentofinsightsheperceivedthesofa.Herewasablamelessobjectthatwouldseparateherentirelyfromdutiesandresponsibilitiesofeverysort.ItwasrespectableitwasunassailablyeffectiveitwasnotincludedintheCommandments.Allshehadtodowastoclingtoit,andnobodycouldmakeherdoorbeanything.Sheaccordinglygotontoitandhadstayedthereeversince,mysteriouslyfrail,anobjectofsolicitudeandsympathy,abeingbeforewhosehelplessnessthemostaggressiveoraggrievedhusbandmustneedsbehelpless,too.Andshehadgraduallyacquiredthesofalook,andwasnowverydefinitelyaslightlyplaintivebutpersistentlypatientChristianlady. "Isthatyou,Ingeborg?"shesaid,turningherhead. "Yes,mother,"saidIngeborg,hesitatinginspiteofherselfonthethreshold. Shelookedroundanxiously,buttheBishopwasnotlurkinganywhereinthebigroom. "Comein,dear,andshutthedoor.Youseethewindowsareopen." Judithglancedupatheramomentfromhertea-makinganddidnotmove.EveninthemidstofherterrorsIngeborgwasastonished,afternothavingseenitforawhile,atherloveliness.Sheseemedtohavetakenthesoddengreysoftheafternoon,thedulnessandthegatheringdusk,andmadeoutoftheirgloomtheoneperfectbackgroundforherbeauty. "Wethoughtyouwouldhavewritten,"saidMrs.Bullivant,puttinghercheekinapositionconvenientforthekissthatwastobeappliedtoit. "I—Itelegraphed,"saidIngeborg,applyingthekiss. "Yes,dear,butonlyaboutyourtrain." "I—thoughtthatwasenough." "But,Ingeborgdear,suchagreatoccasion.Oneofthegreatoccasionsoflife.Wedidexpectalittlenotice,didn'twe,Judith?" "N