arah
Gailey writing them, and the letter was like a bit of Sarah Gailey's
self, magically and disconcertingly projected into the spacious,
laughing home of the Orgreaves, and into the mysterious new happiness
that was forming around Hilda. The Orgreaves, so far as Hilda could
discover, had no real anxieties. They were a joyous lot, favoured alike
by temperament and by fortune. And she, Hilda--what real anxieties had
she? None! She was sure of a small but adequate income. Her grief for
her mother was assuaged. The problem of her soul no longer troubled: in
part it had been solved, and in part it had faded imperceptibly away.
Nor was she exercised about the future, about the 'new life.' Instead of
rushing ardently to meet the future, she felt content to wait for its
coming. Why disturb oneself? She was free. She was enjoying existence
with the Orgreaves. Yes, she was happy in this roseate passivity.

The letter shook her, arousing as it did the sharp sense of her
indebtedness to Sarah Gailey, who alone had succoured her in her long
period of despairing infelicity. Had she guessed that it was Sarah
Gailey's affair upon which George Cannon had desired to see her, she
would not have delayed an hour; no reluctance to meet George Cannon
would have caused her to tarry. But she had not guessed; the idea had
never occurred to her.

She rose, picked up the envelope from the carpet, carefully replaced the
letter in it, and laid it with love on the glittering dressing-table.
Through the unlatched door she heard a tramping of unshod masculine feet
in the passage, and the delightful curt greeting of Osmond Orgreave and
his sleepy son Jimmie--splendid powerful males. She glanced at the
garden, and at the garden of the Clayhangers, swimming in fresh
sunshine. She glanced in the mirror, and saw the deshabille of her black
hair and of her insecure nightgown, and thought: "Truly, I am not so
bad-looking! And how well I feel! How fond they all are of me! I'm just
at the right age. I'm young, but I'm mature. I've had a lot of
experience, and I'm not a fool. I'm strong--I could stand anything!" She
put her shoulders back, with a challenging gesture. The pride of life
was hers.

And then, this disturbing vision of Sarah Gailey, alone, unhappy,
unattractive, enfeebled, ageing--ageing! It seemed to her inexpressibly
cruel that people must grow old and weak and desolate; it seemed
monstrous. A pang, momentary but excruciating, smote her. She s