CHAPTER XV.
WALLERAWANG.
It was Monday afternoon. It had been raining all day. I had tried to get away on Friday but I had not been able to get my washing done so I put off going till Monday.
Somehow the voices were bothering me so much all that day that I felt tired and unable to get my things together. I had written to my brother to expect me any time after Friday, so knew that if I should not be able to leave that night for the country it would not matter. There was Smut to be carried up to Bessie's and my things to collect and pack and the thought of it all worried me.
But at three o'clock, after all the nuisance of these incessant voices giving advice and making comments on my appearance, etc., I spoke angrily and rudely to one of these unseen.
"You wait," came in return. "You are going to be practiced on by Dr. Weston's psycho-analysis class. Your name has been given by Miss Dutton."
I put down the bundle of clothes I had in my hand.
I had seemed to be on view for so long and had held up blouses, skirts, etc., to see if they were clean or untorn, so often, at the same time hearing "Look at her! What's she doing with that blouse? Oh, isn't she vain? Why don't you put the other ribbon on? Oh, fancy dressing up like that—the old hen—Now your boots," etc., all comments on every movement I made—everything I did, in such a way, that it ragged my nerves till they were all on edge.
And now when the taunting remark was flung on me, I stood still for a moment—very still, to show I was listening.
"Very well, then," I said, "I shall write and ask him—and I know Miss Dutton. I shall write and ask her."
There was quiet after that, and a subdued flurry as if someone were saying, "Why did you say such a thing?" "Eileen, you little fool! Why did you?" There was a confused murmur as of voices talking at once in subdued tones, and as if someone were saying to me that it was not true, while another said, "That woman has had enough to bear. It's a shame," etc. and the sound was suddenly shut off. But the voices came again with:
"Look, she's going to do it—Now, you've done it." "She doesn't—she only pretends—she's always doing that kind of thing," etc.
But I wrote the letter to Dr. Weston, went into the shop next door to get his address and posted it.
They seemed to follow me down to the pillar-box. I popped the letter in and came back.
There were no more voices that afternoon. I hurried
