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"Do you mean," said Muriel quietly, "that you think she's gone to
—to kill herself? Oh, but what nonsense, Ben. Why should she?
What nonsense! How dare you talk such wicked nonsense!" She
stretched out her hand for the brass bed-post and stood there
clinging to its solid comfort. "It's nonsense, nonsense. Connie—kill
herself? Now—when I've just made things——"
"It's not nonsense," Ben said heavily. "I'll show you a letter."
"Letter? Letter? Did Connie write a—— Oh, for goodness' sake
get a light and don't talk in riddles."
The bed creaked. Somewhere from the darkness moved a
blacker darkness yet. She heard Ben's laboured breathing.
"Oh, be quick! Be quick!"
If they stood in the dark another minute she would scream.
Ben stumbled across the room. She heard him fumbling on the
mantelpiece. Something fell against the fender with a light,
splintering crash.
"I can't find matches," growled Ben.
"Oh, you idiot!" It was incredible that two people in such dire
consternation should be tortured because they couldn't find the
matches. It made her terribly angry, with a cold fury that she had not
known before.
Ben was cursing softly in the darkness.
"I'll go and get some——" said Muriel.
She stumbled frantically along the passage. From the room
shared by the land-girls came a flood of light, flowing out across the
passage. Alice was sitting beside the lamp, darning a stocking.
Muriel looked at her with wonder. People were still darning
stockings then? What a funny way Alice's hair grew back from her
ears, with little silvery tufts along her neck. You could see them in the
lamplight quite distinctly. What had she come for? Oh, the matches.
"Please, Alice, have you any matches?"
Alice looked up. "My! What a start you gave me! Matches? No. I
had to borrow Mrs. Todd's! Why don't you get Connie's? She bags all
my matches."
On then to her own room she must go. Hours, interminable hours
stretched between her and the horrible nightmare of Ben's voice. Her
own matches lay on the candlestick by her bed where she had left
them. She lit the candle with shaking fingers, then ran again down
the long corridor. The draught plucked at her candle flame; it
fluttered ruddily within the pink screen of her hand.
She came back to Connie's room.
"Ben! Ben! Where are you?"
She set the candle down by the disordered bed. The little flame
shook itself, quivered and then stood gallantly upright, showing the
flower-decked walls, the coarse white counterpane, all heaped and
crumpled, and Ben's white face—blank and passive, staring at her
from beside the mantelpiece.
"Where's that letter?" asked Muriel.
As though in a trance he came forward and handed her a sheet
of flimsy paper, pencil written. She glanced at it.
"This isn't from Connie! What do you mean? Where's Connie?
What have you done with her?"
"Read yon," said Ben.
After one glance at his set face, she read:
The desire to tell some one, to find a sane and comforting adviser in
this world gone mad, urged her almost irresistibly. She would go and
tell Mrs. Todd. She would tell Mat. They would help her to look for
Connie.
"Nothing else would matter in this world to-day,
We would go on loving in the same old way."