they did not destroy her power to live. Now her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.
And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her.
“Well,” he said, “if you don’t believe me, what she’s like, would you believe she has been confirmed three times?”
“Nonsense!” laughed Mrs. Morel.
“Nonsense or not, she has! That’s what confirmation means for her—a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.”
“I haven’t, Mrs. Morel!” cried the girl—“I haven’t! it is not true!”
“What!” he cried, flashing round on her. “Once in Bromley, once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else.”
“Nowhere else!” she said, in tears—“nowhere else!”
“It was! And if it wasn’t, why were you confirmed twice?”
“Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel; “I can quite understand it, child. Take no notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.”
“But it’s true. She’s religious—she has blue velvet Prayer-Books—and she’s not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and that’s how she is in everything—everything!”
The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.
“As for love!” he cried, “you might as well ask a fly to love you! It’ll love settling on you——”
“Now, say no more,” commanded Mrs. Morel. “If you want to say these things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don’t you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you’re engaged to her!”
Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.
William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.
When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.
“You know, mother,” he said to her, “Gyp’s shallow. Nothing goes deep with her.”
