Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
. . Every one would say that he had run away and she had dragged him back and now he had run away again. . .
At half-past eleven we gave up hope.
“He can’t be coming to-night,” Ruth told Phyllida. “Let’s all go to bed; we shall hear something in the morning.”
“He said he would come,” Phyllida answered.
There was another aimless discussion when we were all so tired that we could hardly keep our eyes open. Brackenbury went out to see what he could do with the girl—and returned to say that she had vanished!
Oh, my dear! Our feelings I leave you to imagine. In some directions Phyllida has a wild, insane pride . . . and she had seen it dragged in the mire before the eyes of us all. When I spoke of love degenerating into obsession, I chose my words with care: for months the child had been so distraught that I felt a very little more might upset her reason. Rapidly reviewing all that had passed that day, I recalled the utter desperation of her behaviour—the ruined gambler’s last throw. . . We stood as though we had been carved out of stone, staring at Brackenbury while he stared at us . . . white as paper.
He was thinking of the river. . .
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