L.F.

II

Rachel stared at the letter.  It was the first letter she had seen written on the new note-paper, embossed with the address, “Bycars, Bursley.”  Louis would not have “Bycars Lane” on the note-paper, because “Bycars” alone was more vague and impressive; distant strangers might take it to be the name of a magnificent property.  Her lips curled.  She violently ripped the paper to bits and stuck them in the fire; a few fragments escaped and fluttered like snow on to the fender.  She screwed up the envelope and flung it after the letter.  Her face smarted and tingled as the blood rushed passionately to her head.

She thought, aghast:  “Everything is over!  He will never come back.  He will never have enough moral force to come back.  We haven’t been married two months, and everything is over!  And this is Easter Saturday!  He wanted us to be at Llandudno or somewhere for Easter, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s gone there.  Yes, he would be capable of that.  And if it wasn’t for the plaster on his face, he’d be capable of gallivanting on Llandudno pier this very night!”

She had no illusion as to him.  She saw him as objectively as a god might have seen him.

And then she thought with fury:  “Oh, what a fool I’ve been!  What a little fool!  Why didn’t I listen to him?  Why didn’t I foresee?...  No, I’ve not been a fool!  I’ve not!  I’ve not!  What did I do wrong?  Nothing!  I couldn’t have borne his explanations!...  Explanations, indeed!  I can imagine his explanations!  Did he expect me to smile and kiss him after he’d told me he was a thief?”

And then she thought, in reference to his desertion:  “It’s not true!  It can’t be true!”

She wanted to read the letter again, so that perhaps she might read something into it that was hopeful.  But to read it again was impossible.  She tried to recall its exact terms, and could not.  She could only remember with certainty that the final words were “Yours, L.F.”  Nevertheless, she knew that the thing was true; she knew by the weight within her breast and the horrible nausea that almost overcame her self-control.

She whispered, alone in the room—­

“Yes, it’s true!  And it’s happened to me!...  He’s gone!”

And not the ruin of her life, but the scandal of the affair, was the first matter that occupied her mind.  She was too shaken yet to feel the full disaster.  Her mind ran on little things.  And just as once she had pictured herself self-conscious in the streets of Bursley as a young widow, so now she pictured herself in the far more appalling role of deserted wife.  The scandal would be enormous.  Nothing—­no carefully invented fiction—­would suffice to stifle it.  She would never dare to show her face.  She would be compelled to leave the district.  And supposing a child came!  Fears stabbed her.  She felt tragically helpless as she stood there, facing