Chapter 9: What the Girl Told the Man

The question remained so long unanswered that one was disposed to wonder if the girl had heard it; and this time Mr Frazer persisted in waiting for the reply which did not come. He showed no inclination to press her. Picking up his pouch from the turf, he began, leisurely, to refill his pipe; and, for the first time since he had begun his story, he withdrew his glance from Dorothy; using his eyes to observe the tobacco as he pressed it home. She sat motionless; her hands in front of her; her gaze fixed on the sugar, which the flies still harried; a slight slip of a girl, with black hair, drawn tightly back from her temples, and twisted in a knot behind. That was how they had taught her to do it when, in the convent, she had put it up; she knew no other way, and had no notion of the wonders which an artist in hairdressing could perform with her luxuriant tresses. Although her face was so white and thin that one doubted if she had had enough to eat, it was good to look at. When she raised the long lashes which veiled her eyes, one seemed to see right through the violet orbs which were beneath into her very soul. But the man on the other side of the tablecloth had known many varieties of women’s eyes; he was aware how apt they are to look one thing and mean another; he had little faith in that imponderable essence, the feminine soul; he merely thought what curious eyes the girl had got; quite out of the common. And as, with practised fingers, he packed his pipe, he waited, patiently, for her to speak.

At last she did speak; and, when she did, her words were not an answer to his question.

“You know she’s not an old lady.”

The attribution of such knowledge seemed to surprise him; he seemed, for a moment, to be in doubt as to what, exactly, her words referred. Then when he understood he smiled.

“Is that so?”

He continued to fill his pipe; and she to look at the sugar. Then she asked:

“What are you going to do:”

“I am going to light a match.”

He did so as he spoke, holding the flickering flame to the bowl of his pipe.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” The tobacco was becoming ignited; he sent a puff of smoke into the air. “What do you mean?”

She looked round at him.

“I am Dorothy Gilbert.”

“Of course you are.”

Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact than the air with which he said it. She spoke with a catching of her breath; as if she resented his coolness.

“Did you--know it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did you--know it all along?”

“Certainly--that is, let me be exact; it’s as well to be exact--now and then. When I heard that story at ‘The Bolton Arms’ I would have bet that you were; when you came out of my house, and I saw you standing on the ledge, I was sure that you were. They have your description so pat, over at Newcaster, that it was impossible not to recognise you.”

“Then--then why did you give me my breakfast?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You were my guest.”

“When--when you knew that I was Dorothy Gilbert!”

“Well? What follows? Even so you were my guest.”

“When--when you believed I’d done that thing?”

“I didn’t say that I did believe it; you jump at conclusions.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I am not sure that I do.”

“You are not sure!” She twisted herself round towards him, heat in her voice, fire in her eyes. “You are not sure! How dare you--how dare you say----” She stopped; as if suddenly conscious that her warmth was uncalled for; continuing, with downcast eyes, in a different tone: “What do you mean, when you say, you are not sure?”

“I mean that I don’t believe you did do it. Still, in order that we may have all things shipshape and aboveboard, I confess that I should like to have your assurance that you didn’t.” She was silent. “Won’t you give it?”

“I’m not sure that I can.”

“Can?--or will?”

“I--I’m not sure if I did do it, or if I didn’t.”

She put her hands up before her face; he could see her shivering. He eyed her with what seemed to be growing curiosity.

“What was George Emmett to you?”

“Nothing! Nothing! I hated him!”

“That would seem to suggest that he might have been something to you once; or--you would hardly hate him.”

“I don’t know what you mean; he never was anything to me--never--except my guardian; at least, he said he was my guardian; and I suppose he was; but from the first moment I saw him I hated him.”

“Isn’t that, under the circumstances, rather a dangerous admission to make?”

“Why?”

“Mayn’t some people think that your feeling towards him may have furnished a motive for--what happened?”

“Do you mean that some people may think that because I hated him I killed him? I hadn’t the courage; I shouldn’t have dared, I’m such a coward; it’s because I’m such a coward that I’m here--it’s all my cowardice!”

She sat with clenched fists staring in front of her; there was something in her expression which suggested to her companion that she was not quite such a coward as she asserted. When he spoke again it was as if a note of sympathy had, unawares, crept into his voice.

“You observed, Miss Gilbert, that George Emmett was your guardian, which seems to point to your having lost at least one of your parents. Is it your mother?”

“I never knew my mother--never; so far as I know, I never even saw her. I suppose I must have had a mother, but I don’t know who she was, or anything at all about her.”

“And your father?”

“I believe I was three years old when I saw him last, and now Mr Emmett says he is dead.”