dining-room was open and Carlyon was having breakfast there.
He stood up, holding his napkin in one hand, and she sat down opposite him and poured herself a cup of coffee. Dai Jones came in with a plate of bacon and eggs. Carlyon passed toast and butter across the table. They ate in uneasy silence. He said, at last, nervously pushing back his hair from his forehead: “You look awfully cross!”
“You needn’t bother to be polite,” said Tinka. “I’m going as soon as I possibly can—don’t worry.”
He sat looking down at his toast and marmalade. “I know,” he said. “And now—well, I wish you weren’t.”
“Your hospitality hasn’t been exactly encouraging so far.”
He looked slightly shamefaced. “I’m afraid I allowed myself to be panicked a bit. You—surely you can understand the reasons. But we could remedy all that, now that…”
Now that I’ve seen The Face, thought Tinka. I mustn’t be allowed to go away, now that I’ve seen The Face. The woman has told him and they’ve arranged it between the three of them that he’s to exert his charm and try to get me to stay. There was a tinny clanking and the little milk-woman appeared round the corner of the house and passed the dining-room window carrying her two full cans. Katinka jumped up and ran to it, stumbling over her own feet in her eagerness. “Well, indeed, Miss Jones,” said Miss Evans, her pointed face and blue eyes framed in the narrow window. “I wondered whatever had become of you!”
“Good morning, Miss Evans. …”
“I kept a look out for you last night, but I didn’t see no handkerchief waving by the ford, so I hope it was all right?” said Miss Evans anxiously. “And the gentleman…?”
Carlyon must not know that Tinka had seen Mr. Chucky that morning: that there were now two outsiders who knew about The Face. She raised her voice a little. “I don’t know anything about him. Didn’t he go back? But, Miss Evans, what I wanted was this—would you take me back with you in your boat this morning?”
Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Carlyon’s shoulders sag a little. He put his knife and fork together on his plate and abruptly got to his feet. He said: “I beg your pardon—of course if you want to go…” He gave an infinitesimal shrug and went out of the room.
She was free to go. There was no compulsion on her to stay, no serious effort was to be made to keep her; there was no guilty mystery about the house, and she was free to go. It was all nonsense about Amista, as Mr. Chucky had said, some foolish mix-up that might or might not one day unravel itself. Mr. Chucky had denied Amista, and afterwards satisfactorily accounted for the seeming consistency of his denial—might not the whole mystery be equally easy of explanation? I’ll put it to the test, she thought. This little woman comes up here every day; if there is any young girl about the place, she’s bound to know of it. She leaned forward out of the window and lowered her voice. “Miss Evans—have you ever seen Amista?”
“Seen who?” said the little woman, looking puzzled.
“The young girl who lives here or used to live here. When you’ve been bringing the milk—surely you’ve seen her?”
“There’s no young girl here,” said the milk-woman. “Never such a thing. Just Mr. Carlyon and Mrs. Love and Dai Jones. Nobody else.”
“But there is—there is a girl here,” said Tinka. “I saw her last night. She came into my room. I couldn’t see her face properly; I thought it was somehow deformed, but I may have been mistaken, it may have been the distortion from the light and the shadows of the window curtain. I was a bit highly strung and imagining things. I saw her red nail varnish and I thought it was blood; I realize now that it must have been varnish. Only you see, that means that there is someone here. Mrs. Love hasn’t got any varnish on her nails, because I’ve looked to see. There is a young girl here.
He stood up, holding his napkin in one hand, and she sat down opposite him and poured herself a cup of coffee. Dai Jones came in with a plate of bacon and eggs. Carlyon passed toast and butter across the table. They ate in uneasy silence. He said, at last, nervously pushing back his hair from his forehead: “You look awfully cross!”
“You needn’t bother to be polite,” said Tinka. “I’m going as soon as I possibly can—don’t worry.”
He sat looking down at his toast and marmalade. “I know,” he said. “And now—well, I wish you weren’t.”
“Your hospitality hasn’t been exactly encouraging so far.”
He looked slightly shamefaced. “I’m afraid I allowed myself to be panicked a bit. You—surely you can understand the reasons. But we could remedy all that, now that…”
Now that I’ve seen The Face, thought Tinka. I mustn’t be allowed to go away, now that I’ve seen The Face. The woman has told him and they’ve arranged it between the three of them that he’s to exert his charm and try to get me to stay. There was a tinny clanking and the little milk-woman appeared round the corner of the house and passed the dining-room window carrying her two full cans. Katinka jumped up and ran to it, stumbling over her own feet in her eagerness. “Well, indeed, Miss Jones,” said Miss Evans, her pointed face and blue eyes framed in the narrow window. “I wondered whatever had become of you!”
“Good morning, Miss Evans. …”
“I kept a look out for you last night, but I didn’t see no handkerchief waving by the ford, so I hope it was all right?” said Miss Evans anxiously. “And the gentleman…?”
Carlyon must not know that Tinka had seen Mr. Chucky that morning: that there were now two outsiders who knew about The Face. She raised her voice a little. “I don’t know anything about him. Didn’t he go back? But, Miss Evans, what I wanted was this—would you take me back with you in your boat this morning?”
Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Carlyon’s shoulders sag a little. He put his knife and fork together on his plate and abruptly got to his feet. He said: “I beg your pardon—of course if you want to go…” He gave an infinitesimal shrug and went out of the room.
She was free to go. There was no compulsion on her to stay, no serious effort was to be made to keep her; there was no guilty mystery about the house, and she was free to go. It was all nonsense about Amista, as Mr. Chucky had said, some foolish mix-up that might or might not one day unravel itself. Mr. Chucky had denied Amista, and afterwards satisfactorily accounted for the seeming consistency of his denial—might not the whole mystery be equally easy of explanation? I’ll put it to the test, she thought. This little woman comes up here every day; if there is any young girl about the place, she’s bound to know of it. She leaned forward out of the window and lowered her voice. “Miss Evans—have you ever seen Amista?”
“Seen who?” said the little woman, looking puzzled.
“The young girl who lives here or used to live here. When you’ve been bringing the milk—surely you’ve seen her?”
“There’s no young girl here,” said the milk-woman. “Never such a thing. Just Mr. Carlyon and Mrs. Love and Dai Jones. Nobody else.”
“But there is—there is a girl here,” said Tinka. “I saw her last night. She came into my room. I couldn’t see her face properly; I thought it was somehow deformed, but I may have been mistaken, it may have been the distortion from the light and the shadows of the window curtain. I was a bit highly strung and imagining things. I saw her red nail varnish and I thought it was blood; I realize now that it must have been varnish. Only you see, that means that there is someone here. Mrs. Love hasn’t got any varnish on her nails, because I’ve looked to see. There is a young girl here.
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