The Call from Brighton
i

On the next afternoon, at a quarter-past two, Hilda and Janet were sitting together in the breakfast-room. The house was still. The men were either theoretically or practically at business. Alicia was at school. Mrs. Orgreave lay upstairs. The servants had cleared away and washed up the dinner-things, and had dined themselves. The kitchen had been cleansed and put in order, and every fire replenished. Two of the servants were in their own chambers, enfranchised for an hour: one only remained on duty. All six women had the feeling, which comes to most women at a certain moment in each day, that life had, for a time, deteriorated into the purposeless and the futile; and that it waited, as in a trance, until some external masculine event, expected or unforeseen, should renew its virtue and its energy.

Hilda was in half a mind to tell Janet the history of the past year. She had wakened up in the night, and perceived with dreadful clearness that trouble lay in front of her. The relations between herself and Edwin Clayhanger were developing with the most dizzy rapidity, and in a direction which she desired, but it would be impossible for her, if she fostered the relations, to continue to keep Edwin in ignorance of the fact that, having been known for about a fortnight as Mrs. George Cannon, she was not what he supposed her to be. With imagination on fire, she was anticipating the rendezvous at three o’clock. She reached forward to it in ecstasy; but she might not enjoy it, save at the price which her conscience exacted. She had to say to Edwin Clayhanger that she had been the victim of a bigamist. Could she say it to him? She had not been able to say it even to Janet Orgreave.... She would say it first to Janet. There, in the breakfast-room, she would say it. If it killed her to say it, she would say it. She must at any cost be able to respect herself, and, as matters stood, she could not respect herself.

Janet, on her knees, was idly arranging books on one of the lower bookshelves. In sheer nervousness, Hilda also dropped to her knees on the hearthrug, and began to worry the fire with the poker.

“I say, Janet,” she began.

“Yes?” Janet did not look up.

Hilda, her heart beating, thought, with affrighted swiftness: “Why should I tell her? It is no business of anybody’s except his. I will tell him, and him alone, and then act according to his wishes. After all, I am not to blame. I am quite innocent. But I won’t tell him today. Not today! I must be more sure. It would be ridiculous to tell him today. If I told him it would be almost like inviting a proposal! But when the proper time comes,—then I will tell him, and he will understand! He is bound to understand perfectly. He’s in love with me.”

She dared not tell Janet. In that abode of joyful and successful propriety the words would not form themselves. And the argument that she was not to blame carried no weight whatever. She—she, Hilda—lacked courage to be candid.... This was extremely disconcerting to her self-esteem.... And even with Edwin Clayhanger she wished to temporize. She longed for nothing so much as to see him; and yet she feared to meet him.

“Yes?” Janet repeated.

A bell rang faintly in the distance of the house.

Hilda, suddenly choosing a course, said: “I forgot to tell you. I’m supposed to be going down to Clayhanger’s at three to see a machine at work—it was too late last night. Do come with me. I hate going by myself.” It was true: in that instant she did hate going by herself. She thought, knowing Janet to be at liberty and never dreaming that she would refuse: “I am saved—for the present.”

But Janet answered self-consciously:

“I don’t think I must leave mother. You’ll be perfectly all right by yourself.”

Hilda impetuously turned her head; their glances met for an instant, in suspicion, challenge, animosity. They had an immense mutual admiration the one for the other, these two; and yet now they were estranged. Esteem was nullified by instinct. Hilda thought with positive savagery: “It’s all fiddlesticks about not leaving her mother! She’s simply on her high horse!” The whole colour of existence was changed.
ii

Martha entered the room. Neither of the girls moved. Beneath the deferential servant in Martha was a human girl, making a third in the room, who familiarly divined the moods of the other two and judged them as an equal; and the other two knew it, and therefore did not trouble to be spectacular in front of her.

“A letter, miss,” said Martha, approaching Hilda. “The old postman says it was insufficiently addressed, or it ‘ud ha’ been here by first post.”

“Was that the postman who rang just now?” asked Janet.

“Yes, miss.”

Hilda took the letter with apprehension, as she recognized the down-slanting calligraphy of Sarah Gailey. Yes, the address was imperfect—“Miss Lessways, c/o Osmond Orgreave, Esq., Lane End House, Knype-on-Trent,” instead of “Bursley, Knype-on-Trent.” On the back of the envelope had been written in pencil by an official, “Try Bursley.” Sarah Gailey could not now be trusted to address an envelope correctly. The mere handwriting seemed to announce misfortune.

“From poor Sarah,” Hilda murmured, with false, good-tempered tranquillity. “I wonder what sort of trouble she thinks she’s got into!”

She thought: “If only I was married, I should be free of responsibility about Sarah. I should have to think of my husband first. But nothing else can free me. Unless I marry, I’m tied to Sarah Gailey as long as she lives.... And why?... I should like to know!” The answer was simple: habit had shackled her to Sarah Gailey.

She opened the letter by the flickering firelight, which was stronger on the hearthrug than the light of the dim November day. It began: “Dearest Hilda, I write at once to tell you that a lawyer called here this afternoon to inquire about your Hotel Continental shares. He told me there was going to be some difficulty with the Company, and, unless the independent shareholders formed a strong local committee to look after things, the trouble might be serious. He wanted to know if you would support a committee at the meeting. I gave him your address, and he’s going to write to you. But I thought I would write to you as well. His name is Eustace Broughton, 124 East Street, in case. I do hope nothing will go wrong. It is like what must be, I am sure! It has been impossible for me to keep the charwoman. So I ............