“It’s a pity he can’t talk,” she said.
“Oh, but he can—all but,” replied the other woman.
Then her brother moved on with the horse.
“Are you coming in? Do come in, Mr.—I didn’t catch it.”
“Morel,” said Miriam. “No, we won’t come in, but we should like to go by the mill-pond.”
“Yes—yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?”
“No,” said Paul.
“Because if you do you might come and fish any time,” said Miss Limb. “We scarcely see a soul from week’s end to week’s end. I should be thankful.”
“What fish are there in the pond?” he asked.
They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb.
“I shouldn’t mind swimming here,” he said.
“Do,” she replied. “Come when you like. My brother will be awfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to talk to. Do come and swim.”
Clara came up.
“It’s a fine depth,” she said, “and so clear.”
“Yes,” said Miss Limb.
“Do you swim?” said Paul. “Miss Limb was just saying we could come when we liked.”
“Of course there’s the farm-hands,” said Miss Limb.
They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving the lonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank.
The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, given over to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:
“She makes me feel uncomfortable,” said Paul.
“You mean Miss Limb?” asked Miriam. “Yes.”
“What’s a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?”
“Yes,” said Miriam. “It’s not the right sort of life for her. I think it’s cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more. But—she upsets me.”
“She makes me feel sorry for her—yes, and she bothers me,” he said.
“I suppose,” blurted Clara suddenly, “she wants a man.”
The other two were silent for a few moments.
“But it’s the loneliness sends her cracked,” said Paul.
Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking with her head hanging, her legs swinging as she
