Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
. . Of late years. . . I have lost the thread. . . Ah, yes! I crept away, leaving them together, with the murmur of my boy’s divine sympathy still in my ears. At first I walked aimlessly, trying to keep my mind blank until I was competent to think of anything. What would happen now? . . . In time I found myself on the lawn once more, and the sight of the river reminded me of duty still left undone. I had to find Brackenbury and tell him that his child was safe and in good hands. . . I remember wondering, trying to make up my mind what I should think if this crise shewed Phyllida that it was Will she wanted to marry. . .
There was no one in sight. I walked cautiously to the river, expecting every moment to step over the edge. . . No sound of voices. I called: “Brackenbury!”, “Arthur!”, “Culroyd!”. There was no answer. Do you know that quite unreasoning fear that sometimes overtakes one when one is in the dark and knows that one is not alone? And the river—like a looking-glass in a twilit room. . . I have a horror of any great expanse of water at night ; it is so silent and merciless. “Culroyd! Brackenbury! Spenworth!,” I called again—this time at the top of my voice. And then I am not ashamed to confess that I hurried back to the house as fast as my legs would carry me.
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