And, quite unknown to her, the man in black, suit, raincoat, and Homburg, had faithfully and silently followed behind her. A dumb devotion had experienced a most uncharitable afternoon, for not once did Miss Vaughan turn her head, and, even had she done so, and caught his smile, she would not have answered it. Miss Vaughan was like that, private.
‘I smile at her, but she never smiles back.’
And he watched her walk out of the town, towards a distant shore. ‘She looks so unhappy, lonely,’ he thought.
He liked Miss Vaughan, he liked her greatly, he was sure that he could make her happy. He had never quite forgotten that first glance of hers as she stood at the back of Penuel, and even in recollection her too sudden departure was still felt as a shock. He had stood watching her until she finally vanished in the mist, and he had turned round and walked slowly back to his home, the derelict return to his study, and thoughts of many notes in his head. What a strange afternoon it had been, that lone traveller, and he behind her, whilst the rest of the town hugged its fires, and listened to the wind in the chimney. A silent woman. A lonely woman. Surely? And living in that awful hotel. What on earth had made her go to such a place? Where had she come from? The thoughts crowded in on him, as heavy and slow as tumbrils, and he stirred and stirred at the tea his sister had brought to his study.
‘I wish … I wish and I wish,’ and then he drank his tea. He knew the Decent Hotel, he knew that woman, knew that attic room where Miss Vaughan lived, knew that ‘Welsh fragment’ Jones. Ah!
A tap on his door.
‘More tea, Mervyn?’
‘No thank you, Margiad.’
He heard her sigh, heard her walk away. He closed his eyes, rested his head in his hands. He thought about Miss Vaughan.
‘What great big eyes daylight has, Miss Vaughan.’
He swung his hat in his hand, he listened, he breathed heavily, and waited for the answer. But the silence seemed that of mountains, powerful, stupid. He waited, behind a blue curtain, at the top of the stairs. A bedroom door was closed.
‘Who is that?’
It came to his ear like an echo.
‘Only me.’
‘Again?’
‘Again.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I could make you happy, Miss Vaughan. You know that.’
‘I am happy.’
And the words dragged, ‘Is that all?’ the voice sepulchral.
There was no answer. He rested on one leg, and then the other.
‘Did you have a nice dream last night, Miss Vaughan?’
‘I like dreaming.’
The promptness of reply astonished him.
‘I - - er - - -’ he stuttered.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Once upon a time, Miss Vaughan, there was a hardbitten and winter man that walked out of a turnip-cold field, and took a great hurricane lamp to the barn, and lighted it, and hung it up. After which he walked home to his supper, and thence to bed. His bones ached after the long day, and he slept deeply. And he was real. You are not quite real, Miss Vaughan, yet I know I could make you happy.’
And again he listened, waited. A too sudden titter quite un-nerved him.
‘You are full of grace at eight o’clock in the morning, Mr Thomas.’
‘Is that all?’
And another titter. ‘Was there something else, Minister?’
‘I am myself, Miss Vaughan, yes indeed. And I am the only one that notices you as you walk down the street. Who else does? The world? Who cares?’
He expected a further titter, but the silence was total.
Words stabbed into the darkness. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Today will be like yesterday, Miss Vaughan, and the day before that, and tomorrow will be no different. Not for you, a great pity. I often think of you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you are welcome, Miss Vaughan.’ He paused, and continued nervously, ‘Miss .…’
‘You will never find me,’ she said.
‘I shall not keep you, for I know the world is waiting. Yes indeed.’
‘Are you gone?’
