Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
We seemed unable to move. . .
At last Spenworth hurled himself through the door, with Brackenbury, Culroyd, Arthur, goodness knows who at his heels. I caught Will’s arm and went with him on to the terrace; it was time that some one kept his head. Do you know, I had a premonition: a moonless night, that inky river, demented, shouting men jostling one another on the bank and in the water, plunging and splashing, a cry for help, some one caught in the reeds, two—three tragedies instead of one. . .
“The boat-house, Will,” I urged.
We dashed along the terrace and across the lawn. Suddenly I stopped. Ahead of me—in the darkness I could not see how far—there was a flash of white. It vanished, appeared again, vanished again.
“This way,” I said.
And I could have sobbed aloud. Instead of making for the river, poor Phyllida was roaming distractedly towards the lodge. We heard her feet stumbling on and off the gravel, there came the moan of a tortured animal. . . The footsteps ceased abruptly, the white coat vanished. . . She had left the drive and turned away behind a clump of laurel. I heard her crying as though her heart would break. . .
“I can run no farther,” I said to Will.
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