All her first feelings were that she ought to die, that she had failed and that her disillusion as to Marty had been directly brought about by herself.She saw it all honestly and made no attempt to hedge.By day, she sat quietly, big-eyed, amazingly childlike, waiting for her punishment, watched by the practical old woman, every moment of whose time was filled, with growing uneasiness and amazement.By night she lay awake as long as she could, listening for the soft footstep of the one who would take her away.At meals, the old woman bullied for she was of the school that hold firmly to the belief that unless the people who partake of food do not do so to utter repletion a personal insult is intended.At other times she went out into the orchard and sat with Joan and, burning with a desire to cheer her up, gave her, in the greatest detail, the story of all the deaths, diseases and quarrels that had ever been known to the village.And every day the good sun warmed and encouraged the earth, drew forth the timid heads of plants and flowers, gave beauty even to the odd corners once more and did his allotted task with a generosity difficult to praise too highly.And Death paid visits here and there but passed the cottage by.At the beginning of the second week, Nature, who has no patience with any attempt to refute her laws, especially on the part of those who are young and vigorous, took Joan in hand."What is all this, my girl?"she said, "sitting here with your hands in your lap while everybody and everything is working and making and preparing.Stir yourself, bustle up, get busy, there's lots to be done in the springtime if the autumn is to bear fruit.You're sound and whole for all that you've been hurt.If you were not, Death would be here without your calling him.Up you get, now." And, with good-natured roughness, she laid her hand under Joan's elbow, gave a hoist and put her on her feet.
Whereupon, in the natural order of things, Joan turned from self-blame to find a victim who should be held responsible for the pain that she had suffered, and found the girl with the red lips and the white face and the hair that came out of a bottle.Ah, yes! It was she who had caught Marty when he was hurt and disappointed.It was she who had taken advantage of his loneliness and dragged him clown to her own level, this girl whom she had called Fairy and who had had the effrontery to go up to the place on the edge of the woods that was the special property of Marty and herself.And for the rest of the week, with the sap running eagerly in her veins once more, she moved restlessly about the orchard and the garden, heaping coals of fire on to the all too golden head of Tootles.
Then came the feeling of wounded pride, the last step towards convalescence.Marty had chosen between herself and this girl.
Without giving her a real chance to put things right he had slipped away silently and taken Tootles with him.Not she, but the girl with the red lips and the pale face and the hair that came out of a bottle had stripped Marty of his armor, and the truth of it was that Marty, yes, even Marty, was not really a knight but a very ordinary man.
Out of the orchard and the garden she went, once she had arrived at this stage, and tramped the countryside with her ears tuned to catch the alluring strains of the mechanical music of the Round-about.She had not only been making a fool of herself but had been made to look a fool, she thought.Her pain and suffering and disillusion had been wasted.All these dull and lonely days had been wasted and thrown away.Death must have laughed to see her sitting in the shadow of the apple trees waiting for a visit that was undeserved.Marty could live and enjoy himself without her.That was evident.Very well, then, she could live and enjoy herself without Marty.The earth was large enough for them both, and if he could find love in the person of that small girl she coul surely find it in one or other of the men who had whispered in her ear.Also there was Gilbert Palgrave, who had gone down upon his knees.
And that was the end of her isolation, her voluntary retirement.
Back she went to the City of Dreadful Nonsense, bought clothes and shoes and hats, found an invitation to join a house party at Southampton, made no effort to see or hear from Marty, and sprang back into her seat in the Merry-go-round."Who Cares?" she cried again."Nobody," she answered."What I do with my life matters to no one but myself.Set the pace, my dear, laugh and flirt and play with fire and have a good time.A short life and a merry one."And then she joined the Hosacks, drank deep of the wine of adulation, and when, at odd times, the sound of Marty's voice echoed in her memory, she forced it out and laughed it away."Who Cares?"was his motto too,--red lips and white face and hair that came out of a bottle!
And now here was Gilbert Palgrave with the fire of love in his eyes.
