with so much effort. And now to see it tumbled down in an instant to nothing. It was unbearable.
And she would not bear it.
At the lowest point of her misery she found in herself a small spark of determination burning still. With a little glowing residueof acquired knowledge. Had she not discovered within a week of coming to the house over the matter of sugar-mice and Pelham’s spoiled appetite that Mrs Arthur did not really possess a strong will? Very well, put her to the test. See who was truly the stronger, for all the difference in their stations.
She drew herself up, straight as a pikestaff.
‘Mrs Thackerton, I cannot accept your decision. It is true that Sergeant Drewd appears to entertain suspicions of myself, and I suppose that this newspaper* – she slapped it against her thigh in contempt – ‘repeats the vile suspicions he seemed to hold against me. But I am not guilty of that monstrous crime any more than I am guilty of having spoken to this Mr Hopkinson, and I require you to show your belief in that. You must keep me under your roof, or face whatever consequences will come of turning me away and implying utterly unjustly that I have committed the gravest of all offences.’
Mrs Arthur was silent, stunned it seemed by the outburst. But at last she turned towards the little table at her side and adjusted the position of the pink and purple glass vase that stood on it.
‘Very well, Miss Unwin,’ she said then. ‘Since you put the matter in that light perhaps for the time being we should say no more about it.’
Miss Unwin gave her a stiff little bow, slapped the offending copy of the
Mercury
down beside the pink and purple vase and marched out of the room.
But it was all she could do, once beyond its door, to drag herself back up to the schoolroom and let Hannah resume her household tasks.
She had managed to put Mrs Arthur in the wrong and make her own continued stay in the house a point of principle. But would that state of things last very long? If Mrs Arthur told her husband what had happened, he would very likely take a much sterner line. If he called her bluff, she could not, of course, go to law against him. A lawyer’s fees would eat up her scanty savings in a day.
Then there was that article in the
Mercury
. She wished abruptly she had not made the gesture of returning the paper to Mrs Arthur with such ferocity. She had not read everything its special correspondent,Horatio Hopkinson of the sudden false smiles and battered silk hat, had written about her. From what Mrs Arthur had said it seemed that he had gone on to make even more specific allegations about her.
The whole world would now be thinking that she had murdered her employer, a man who took ‘the greatest interest in the welfare’ of his only grandson.
She paused for a moment before entering the schoolroom and devoting herself once more to little Pelham.
Now, more than ever, she must get hold of proof, or at the very least of the strongest indication, that Mr Arthur was the person who had wielded that Italian paper-knife. If she delayed too long she could well find herself bundled unceremoniously out of the house, without any form of character reference, heading for that long downwards slope.
But there was nothing that she could do immediately. She must go to Pelham. In a very short time the first gentlemen coming to the house to follow the funeral procession would be arriving, to be shown into the library where Mellings would dispense sherry wine and cake and the undertaker would dispense his supply of black hatbands, black scarves and pairs of black gloves.
Then there would come the departure of the coffin, black and massive round its inner case, studded with shining rows of japanned brass nails. That would be a hard moment for a small boy, knowing that under all the show there would be lying the body of his grandfather so lately alive and barking out each evening his approving grunt of a laugh when a sugar-mouse’s head
And she would not bear it.
At the lowest point of her misery she found in herself a small spark of determination burning still. With a little glowing residueof acquired knowledge. Had she not discovered within a week of coming to the house over the matter of sugar-mice and Pelham’s spoiled appetite that Mrs Arthur did not really possess a strong will? Very well, put her to the test. See who was truly the stronger, for all the difference in their stations.
She drew herself up, straight as a pikestaff.
‘Mrs Thackerton, I cannot accept your decision. It is true that Sergeant Drewd appears to entertain suspicions of myself, and I suppose that this newspaper* – she slapped it against her thigh in contempt – ‘repeats the vile suspicions he seemed to hold against me. But I am not guilty of that monstrous crime any more than I am guilty of having spoken to this Mr Hopkinson, and I require you to show your belief in that. You must keep me under your roof, or face whatever consequences will come of turning me away and implying utterly unjustly that I have committed the gravest of all offences.’
Mrs Arthur was silent, stunned it seemed by the outburst. But at last she turned towards the little table at her side and adjusted the position of the pink and purple glass vase that stood on it.
‘Very well, Miss Unwin,’ she said then. ‘Since you put the matter in that light perhaps for the time being we should say no more about it.’
Miss Unwin gave her a stiff little bow, slapped the offending copy of the
Mercury
down beside the pink and purple vase and marched out of the room.
But it was all she could do, once beyond its door, to drag herself back up to the schoolroom and let Hannah resume her household tasks.
She had managed to put Mrs Arthur in the wrong and make her own continued stay in the house a point of principle. But would that state of things last very long? If Mrs Arthur told her husband what had happened, he would very likely take a much sterner line. If he called her bluff, she could not, of course, go to law against him. A lawyer’s fees would eat up her scanty savings in a day.
Then there was that article in the
Mercury
. She wished abruptly she had not made the gesture of returning the paper to Mrs Arthur with such ferocity. She had not read everything its special correspondent,Horatio Hopkinson of the sudden false smiles and battered silk hat, had written about her. From what Mrs Arthur had said it seemed that he had gone on to make even more specific allegations about her.
The whole world would now be thinking that she had murdered her employer, a man who took ‘the greatest interest in the welfare’ of his only grandson.
She paused for a moment before entering the schoolroom and devoting herself once more to little Pelham.
Now, more than ever, she must get hold of proof, or at the very least of the strongest indication, that Mr Arthur was the person who had wielded that Italian paper-knife. If she delayed too long she could well find herself bundled unceremoniously out of the house, without any form of character reference, heading for that long downwards slope.
But there was nothing that she could do immediately. She must go to Pelham. In a very short time the first gentlemen coming to the house to follow the funeral procession would be arriving, to be shown into the library where Mellings would dispense sherry wine and cake and the undertaker would dispense his supply of black hatbands, black scarves and pairs of black gloves.
Then there would come the departure of the coffin, black and massive round its inner case, studded with shining rows of japanned brass nails. That would be a hard moment for a small boy, knowing that under all the show there would be lying the body of his grandfather so lately alive and barking out each evening his approving grunt of a laugh when a sugar-mouse’s head
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