On her way back to the Court her eyes saw only the white road before her feet as she walked.  She did not lift them until she found herself passing the lych-gate at the entrance to the churchyard.  Then suddenly she looked up at the square grey stone tower where the bells hung, and from which they called the village to church, or chimed for weddings—­or gave slowly forth to the silent air one heavy, regular stroke after another.  She looked and shuddered, and spoke aloud with a curious, passionate imploring, like a child’s.

“Oh, don’t toll!  Don’t toll!  You must not!  You cannot!” Terror had sprung upon her, and her heart was being torn in two in her breast.  That was surely what it seemed like—­this agonising ache of fear.  Now from hour to hour she would be waiting and listening to each sound borne on the air.  Her thought would be a possession she could not escape.  When she spoke or was spoken to, she would be listening—­when she was silent every echo would hold terror, when she slept—­if sleep should come to her—­her hearing would be awake, and she would be listening—­listening even then.  It was not Betty Vanderpoel who was walking along the white road, but another creature—­a girl whose brain was full of abnormal thought, and whose whole being made passionate outcry against the thing which was being slowly forced upon her.  If the bell tolled—­suddenly, the whole world would be swept clean of life—­empty and clean.  If the bell tolled.

Before the entrance of the Court she saw, as she approached it, the vicarage pony carriage, standing as it had stood on the day she had returned from her walk on the marshes.  She felt it quite natural that it should be there.  Mrs. Brent always seized upon any fragment of news, and having seized on something now, she had not been able to resist the excitement of bringing it to Lady Anstruthers and her sister.

She was in the drawing-room with Rosalie, and was full of her subject and the emotion suitable to the occasion.  She had even attained a certain modified dampness of handkerchief.  Rosalie’s handkerchief, however, was not damp.  She had not even attempted to use it, but sat still, her eyes brimming with tears, which, when she saw Betty, brimmed over and slipped helplessly down her cheeks.

“Betty!” she exclaimed, and got up and went towards her, “I believe you have heard.”

“In the village, I heard something—­yes,” Betty answered, and after giving greeting to Mrs. Brent, she led her sister back to her chair, and sat near her.

This—­the thought leaped upon her—­was the kind of situation she must be prepared to be equal to.  In the presence of these who knew nothing, she must bear herself as if there was nothing to be known.  No one but herself had the slightest knowledge of what the past months had brought to her—­no one in the world.  If the bell tolled, no one in the world but her father ever would know.  She had no excuse for emotion.  None had been given to her.  The kind of thing it was proper that she should say and do now, in the presence of Mrs. Brent, it would be proper and decent that she should say and do in all other cases.  She must comport herself as Betty Vanderpoel would if she were moved only by ordinary human sympathy and regret.