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Updated: May 14, 2025
She reflected with humiliation that it was absurd to obtrude herself thus on a scene shadowed by tragedy, yet when she saw a glint of real amusement on Mildred Caniper's face, a new thought came to her. Perhaps reserve was not so great a virtue as she had believed. She must not forget; nor must she forget that Miriam considered her a prig, that Mildred Caniper found her too helpful.
The dead, distant mother was not real to her: she was like the gay shadow of a butterfly that must soon die, and Philip Caniper was no more than a name. Their fate could hardly stir her, and their personal tragedy was done; but now she thought she could interpret the thoughts which clustered in the dining-room. This was Mildred Caniper's secret, and it had been told without shame.
"We'll find water," she said, but she would not go to the stream that ran into the larch-wood. Today, the taint of evil was about Halkett's Farm, as that of decay was in Mildred Caniper's room. "We'll go to the pool where the rushes are, Jim, and wash our hands and face." They ran fleetly, and as they went she saw George at a distance on his horse.
"If she's not cross," Miriam whispered, "we'll know she's worried." "Oh," Helen said soberly, "how horrid of us! I wish I hadn't." Miriam's elbow was in her side. "Here she comes, look!" They could see the crown of Mildred Caniper's fair head, the white blot of her clasped hands. "What is it?" she asked quietly, turning up her face. "Shall Miriam order the chickens?" Helen called down.
She folded her work and put out the light, told Jim to follow her up the stairs, and trod them quietly. It was comforting to see the Pinderwells on the landing, but she had no time for speech with them. She was wondering if death had come and filled the house with this sense of presences, but when she bent over Mildred Caniper's bed she found her sleeping steadily.
"Five, six, seven," Helen counted on, and her whispers sounded loudly in the room where Mildred Caniper's thoughts were busy. "You haven't a very warm coat, so you must take mine," Helen said, and when she looked up she discovered in her stepmother the extraordinary stillness of a being whose soul has gone on a long journey.
"Yes, thank you," Helen said, with serious politeness. She made a movement unnatural to her in its violence, because she was forcing herself to speak. "But you don't mind if the boys do things like that." She hesitated and plunged again. "It's Miriam. You're not fair to her. You never have been." Over Mrs. Caniper's small face there swept changes of expression which Helen was not to forget.
Meanwhile, as though it looked for something, the light spread itself in Mildred Caniper's room and she attuned her ears for the different noises of the day.
"Her face is twisted. Oh I see it every day!" "Helen, don't! I'll go, but don't make me stay long. I'll go now," she said, and went on timid feet. Helen stayed outside the door, for she could not bring herself to witness Mildred Caniper's betrayal of her decay to one who had never loved her: there was an indecency in allowing Miriam to see it.
Miriam beat her hands together softly. "And yet," she said, "I've sometimes been to church for a diversion. Have you?" "Never," he answered firmly. "I counted the bald heads," she said mournfully, "but they didn't last out." She looked up and saw that Uncle Alfred was laughing silently: she glanced over her shoulder and saw Mildred Caniper's lips compressed, and she had a double triumph.
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