evening, he had fallen down.
"You will exhaust yourself," Miss Hare warned.
"I am used to it," Mrs Godbold replied. "And am strong, besides. When I was a girl, we would work in the fields, and walk for miles. That was in the fens. Before I came out. Flat country, certainly, but it does not let you eat it up all that easy." She laughed. "We would skate, too, all of us girls and boys; we was nine in the family. We would skate across the flooded country during a hard winter, miles and miles, everything so brittle. The twigs on the hedges looked as if you could have broken them off like glass."
Her eyes were suddenly brightened by what she was telling. Solidity in herself seemed to give to the glass twigs some mysterious, desirable, unattainable property of their own.
Once while Miss Hare was feverish, and really very ill, she confided in her nurse, "I am afraid I may fall and hurt myself on so much glass. Will you let me hold your hand?"
"Yes," agreed the other, and gave it.
She might have severed it, if necessary, with its wedding ring and all.
"Gold," Miss Hare mumbled. "Champing at the bit. Did you ever see the horses? I haven't yet. But at times, the wheels crush me unbearably."
Mrs Godbold remained a seated statue. The massive rumps of her horses waited, swishing their tails through eternity. The wheels of her chariot were solid gold, well-axled, as might have been expected. Or so it seemed to the sick woman, whose own vision never formed, remaining a confusion of light, at most an outline of vague and fiery pain.
"Never," complained Miss Hare. "Never. Never. As if I were not intended to discover."
Whereupon she succeeded in twisting herself upright.
"Go to sleep. Too much talk will not do you any good," advised the nurse.
And looked put out, at least for her, as if the patient had destroyed something they had been sharing.
"Oh, but I am ill," Miss Hare whimpered.
Mrs Godbold let the silence slip by. Then, ever so gradually, she had ventured on a suggestion.
"I will pray for you," she said.
"If it will do you any good," Miss Hare sighed. "I hope you will take the opportunity. But leaves are best, I find, plastered moist on the forehead."
Then she drifted off, and Mrs Godbold continued to sit beside her for a while. Evening was a perfect silence. The tranquil light, interceding with the darkness, held for a moment a thread of cob-web in its balance.
When she was recovered, Miss Hare decided on one occasion to sound her friend.
"I believe we exchanged some confidences while I was so ill."
Mrs Godbold did not wish to answer, but felt compelled to.
"What confidences?" she asked, turning away.
"About the Chariot."
Mrs Godbold blushed.
"Some people," she said, "get funny ideas when they are sick."
Miss Hare was not deceived, however, and remained convinced they would continue to share a secret, after her friend had returned to carry out her life sentence of love and labour in the shed below the post-office.
That some secret did exist, Mrs Jolley also was certain, with her instinct for doors through which she might never be admitted. Not that she wanted to be. Oh dear, no, not for a moment.
"Sounds a peculiar person to me," she had to comment, when her employer had concluded the story of her illness, or such parts of it as were communicable.
Miss Hare laughed. Her face was quite transformed.
Mrs Jolley swelled, only just perceptibly.
"And what will become of her," she asked, "in that shed, with all those children, and the husband--what about the husband?"
Had she put her finger on a sore?
"Oh, the husband comes and goes. On several occasions he has hit her, and once he loosened several of her teeth. He has been in prison, you know, for drunkenness.
"Oh, yes, the husband!" she was forced to add.
And she began to sway her head from side to side, in a manner both troubled and grotesque, which gave her companion considerable satisfaction.
"There is so much evil," finally cried the distraught Miss
"You will exhaust yourself," Miss Hare warned.
"I am used to it," Mrs Godbold replied. "And am strong, besides. When I was a girl, we would work in the fields, and walk for miles. That was in the fens. Before I came out. Flat country, certainly, but it does not let you eat it up all that easy." She laughed. "We would skate, too, all of us girls and boys; we was nine in the family. We would skate across the flooded country during a hard winter, miles and miles, everything so brittle. The twigs on the hedges looked as if you could have broken them off like glass."
Her eyes were suddenly brightened by what she was telling. Solidity in herself seemed to give to the glass twigs some mysterious, desirable, unattainable property of their own.
Once while Miss Hare was feverish, and really very ill, she confided in her nurse, "I am afraid I may fall and hurt myself on so much glass. Will you let me hold your hand?"
"Yes," agreed the other, and gave it.
She might have severed it, if necessary, with its wedding ring and all.
"Gold," Miss Hare mumbled. "Champing at the bit. Did you ever see the horses? I haven't yet. But at times, the wheels crush me unbearably."
Mrs Godbold remained a seated statue. The massive rumps of her horses waited, swishing their tails through eternity. The wheels of her chariot were solid gold, well-axled, as might have been expected. Or so it seemed to the sick woman, whose own vision never formed, remaining a confusion of light, at most an outline of vague and fiery pain.
"Never," complained Miss Hare. "Never. Never. As if I were not intended to discover."
Whereupon she succeeded in twisting herself upright.
"Go to sleep. Too much talk will not do you any good," advised the nurse.
And looked put out, at least for her, as if the patient had destroyed something they had been sharing.
"Oh, but I am ill," Miss Hare whimpered.
Mrs Godbold let the silence slip by. Then, ever so gradually, she had ventured on a suggestion.
"I will pray for you," she said.
"If it will do you any good," Miss Hare sighed. "I hope you will take the opportunity. But leaves are best, I find, plastered moist on the forehead."
Then she drifted off, and Mrs Godbold continued to sit beside her for a while. Evening was a perfect silence. The tranquil light, interceding with the darkness, held for a moment a thread of cob-web in its balance.
When she was recovered, Miss Hare decided on one occasion to sound her friend.
"I believe we exchanged some confidences while I was so ill."
Mrs Godbold did not wish to answer, but felt compelled to.
"What confidences?" she asked, turning away.
"About the Chariot."
Mrs Godbold blushed.
"Some people," she said, "get funny ideas when they are sick."
Miss Hare was not deceived, however, and remained convinced they would continue to share a secret, after her friend had returned to carry out her life sentence of love and labour in the shed below the post-office.
That some secret did exist, Mrs Jolley also was certain, with her instinct for doors through which she might never be admitted. Not that she wanted to be. Oh dear, no, not for a moment.
"Sounds a peculiar person to me," she had to comment, when her employer had concluded the story of her illness, or such parts of it as were communicable.
Miss Hare laughed. Her face was quite transformed.
Mrs Jolley swelled, only just perceptibly.
"And what will become of her," she asked, "in that shed, with all those children, and the husband--what about the husband?"
Had she put her finger on a sore?
"Oh, the husband comes and goes. On several occasions he has hit her, and once he loosened several of her teeth. He has been in prison, you know, for drunkenness.
"Oh, yes, the husband!" she was forced to add.
And she began to sway her head from side to side, in a manner both troubled and grotesque, which gave her companion considerable satisfaction.
"There is so much evil," finally cried the distraught Miss
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