senses."
"No," she said, stiffening. "I don't doubt them. And he can't make me. Nor can you."
"That's right," he said calmly. "Rest on what you remember, on your own best belief. My dear, if you are right and we are all . . .mistaken, for some terrible reason, then it must become clear sooner or later "
"But why?" she cried. "Why isn't it clear now? I'm not mistaken. I'm not sick. Why"—her voice rose hysterically—"why does everybody tell me this lie?"
He came around the desk and put his big hands on her shaking shoulders. "Remember this," he said at last: "I have known Francis before. I know that he has no wish to harm you, Mathilda. And you are not sick. Don't believe that for one second. Don't consider
it." He walked away from her.
And the blood drained away from her heart in sudden panic because something about this man was familiar to her. He was a stranger, but some things about him she seemed to know.
"Come to see me again." He seemed distressed. He opened the door to the hall. The woman came and Mathilda felt herself being led away. The woman was talking softly about tea.
Mathilda was puzzled and angry and frightened, and comforted. She felt somewhere in this quiet house a secret, a secret to do with herself. She was comforted by a queer sense that if she knew she would understand. At the same time, she resented that there should be any secret
"I won't drink tea here!" She flung it in the woman's face.
"Poor child," murmured Mrs. White.
When Francis and the doctor came belatedly through the door, she searched the ministers face for that sympathy. But his face had turned to stone. Even his eyes had changed. They no longer seemed to be seeing her. The sympathy and the mystery both were gone. He said, “I'm very sorry." But he was not. Not any more.
Mathilda thought to herself, Don't make a scene. Don't cry. to Grandy. Grandy will know what to do.
Chapter Eight
"Did you know Rosaleen Wright?"
She was startled. They had been sitting side by side on the train like strangers. She said, "Of course."
"Did you like her?"
"Of course," she said again. "We are good friends."
"Were," said Francis.
"What?"
"She's dead, you know."
"I. . . didn't know," said Mathilda finally. She was shocked out of her own circle of thoughts. "What happened to her?” she asked quietly, in a minute. "Was she ill?"
"She hanged herself," he said.
Mathilda wanted to scream. "Is this another of your lies?” managed at last. She thought she had never been so buffeted and shaken up and confused and shocked by anyone in her life. This man seemed dedicated to the business of upsetting her.
"Why should I lie about that?" he snapped back angrily.
She shook her head. She held up her hand as if to beg for an interval between the shocks he kept dealing. Rosaleen, who was such a dear, such a comfort, so much her friend, the only one Althea had never bothered to take away. Rosaleen, whose steady friendship she'd known and kept and never flaunted, lest Althea stir herself to spoil it. Rosaleen, who was so steady and so strong, couldn't be gone, couldn't have been driven desperate, couldn't have been so shaken—
"I don't believe it!" she gasped.
“Don't believe what?" He was eager.
That she'd do that."
“Now, don't you?" he said oddly.
No,"
"That's the story" he shrugged. "She hanged herself five days after you were reported lost. In Grandy's study. She stood on his desk and—"
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Never!"
"You knew her well?" His voice was warm. He must have leaned closer.
"But tell me," she gasped, "why did she? Why?"
"No reason."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there wasn't any reason."
"But there must have been! I don't understand! What a dreadful thing!" Mathilda wrung her hands. "Oh, poor Grandy!"
"Poor Grandy indeed " he muttered.
Something in
"No," she said, stiffening. "I don't doubt them. And he can't make me. Nor can you."
"That's right," he said calmly. "Rest on what you remember, on your own best belief. My dear, if you are right and we are all . . .mistaken, for some terrible reason, then it must become clear sooner or later "
"But why?" she cried. "Why isn't it clear now? I'm not mistaken. I'm not sick. Why"—her voice rose hysterically—"why does everybody tell me this lie?"
He came around the desk and put his big hands on her shaking shoulders. "Remember this," he said at last: "I have known Francis before. I know that he has no wish to harm you, Mathilda. And you are not sick. Don't believe that for one second. Don't consider
it." He walked away from her.
And the blood drained away from her heart in sudden panic because something about this man was familiar to her. He was a stranger, but some things about him she seemed to know.
"Come to see me again." He seemed distressed. He opened the door to the hall. The woman came and Mathilda felt herself being led away. The woman was talking softly about tea.
Mathilda was puzzled and angry and frightened, and comforted. She felt somewhere in this quiet house a secret, a secret to do with herself. She was comforted by a queer sense that if she knew she would understand. At the same time, she resented that there should be any secret
"I won't drink tea here!" She flung it in the woman's face.
"Poor child," murmured Mrs. White.
When Francis and the doctor came belatedly through the door, she searched the ministers face for that sympathy. But his face had turned to stone. Even his eyes had changed. They no longer seemed to be seeing her. The sympathy and the mystery both were gone. He said, “I'm very sorry." But he was not. Not any more.
Mathilda thought to herself, Don't make a scene. Don't cry. to Grandy. Grandy will know what to do.
Chapter Eight
"Did you know Rosaleen Wright?"
She was startled. They had been sitting side by side on the train like strangers. She said, "Of course."
"Did you like her?"
"Of course," she said again. "We are good friends."
"Were," said Francis.
"What?"
"She's dead, you know."
"I. . . didn't know," said Mathilda finally. She was shocked out of her own circle of thoughts. "What happened to her?” she asked quietly, in a minute. "Was she ill?"
"She hanged herself," he said.
Mathilda wanted to scream. "Is this another of your lies?” managed at last. She thought she had never been so buffeted and shaken up and confused and shocked by anyone in her life. This man seemed dedicated to the business of upsetting her.
"Why should I lie about that?" he snapped back angrily.
She shook her head. She held up her hand as if to beg for an interval between the shocks he kept dealing. Rosaleen, who was such a dear, such a comfort, so much her friend, the only one Althea had never bothered to take away. Rosaleen, whose steady friendship she'd known and kept and never flaunted, lest Althea stir herself to spoil it. Rosaleen, who was so steady and so strong, couldn't be gone, couldn't have been driven desperate, couldn't have been so shaken—
"I don't believe it!" she gasped.
“Don't believe what?" He was eager.
That she'd do that."
“Now, don't you?" he said oddly.
No,"
"That's the story" he shrugged. "She hanged herself five days after you were reported lost. In Grandy's study. She stood on his desk and—"
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Never!"
"You knew her well?" His voice was warm. He must have leaned closer.
"But tell me," she gasped, "why did she? Why?"
"No reason."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there wasn't any reason."
"But there must have been! I don't understand! What a dreadful thing!" Mathilda wrung her hands. "Oh, poor Grandy!"
"Poor Grandy indeed " he muttered.
Something in
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