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Page 80
She greeted him with a question of her own. "Are your
plans decided?"
"Yes. I can't live at Sawston."
"Have you told Mrs. Herriton?"
"I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things;
but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the
affair is settled--sadly settled since the baby is dead.
Still it's over; our family circle need be vexed no more.
She won't even be angry with you. You see, you have done us
no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about
Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and
work. What is yours?"
"Poor Harriet!" said Miss Abbott. "As if I dare judge
Harriet! Or anybody." And without replying to Philip's
question she left him to visit the other invalid.
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked
mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All
the excitement was over--the inquest, Harriet's short
illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent,
both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy.
In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his
face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight
of the sling. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it
was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous
work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very
little way those things would go.
"Is Harriet going to be all right?" he asked. Miss
Abbott had come back to him.
"She will soon be her old self," was the reply. For
Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was
quickly returning to her normal state. She had been
"thoroughly upset" as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to
realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor
little child. Already she spoke of "this unlucky accident,"
and "the mysterious frustration of one's attempts to make
things better." Miss Abbott had seen that she was
comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she
returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered
the affair as settled.
"I'm clear enough about Harriet's future, and about
parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?"
"Sawston and work," said Miss Abbott.
"No."
"Why not?" she asked, smiling.
"You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done
more than I have."
"But it's so different. Of course I shall go to
Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn't there,
I've a hundred ties: my district--I'm neglecting it
shamefully--my evening classes, the St. James'--"
"Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have
the whole thing out with her. "You're too good--about a
thousand times better than I am. You can't live in that
hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand
you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again
and again."
"Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I
hope that it will mean often."
"It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way,
each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's
not good enough."
"We can write at all events."
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