The Lions Share | Page 9

large mouth ripe red, inviting and provocative. In the
midst, an absurd small unprominent nose that meant nothing! Her
complexion was divine, surpassing all similes. To caress that smooth
downy cheek (if you looked close you could see the infinitesimal down
against the light like an aura on the edge of the silhouette), even to let
the gaze dwell on it, what an enchantment!... She considered herself
piquant and comely, and she was not deceived. She had long hands.
The wind from afar on her cheek reminded her poignantly that she was
a prisoner. She could not go to the clustered village on the left, nor into
the saltings on the right, nor even on to the sea-wall where the new
rushes and grasses were showing. All the estuary was barred, and the
winding road that mounted the slope towards Colchester. Her revolt
against injustice was savage. Hatred of her father surged up in her like
glittering lava. She had long since ceased to try to comprehend him.
She despised herself because she was unreasonably afraid of him,
ridiculously mute before him. She could not understand how anybody
could be friendly with him--for was he not notorious? Yet everywhere
he was greeted with respect and smiles, and he would chat at length
with all manner of people on a note of mild and smooth cordiality. He
and Miss Ingate would enjoy together the most enormous talks. She
was, however, aware that Miss Ingate's opinion of him was not very
different from her own. Each time she saw her father and Miss Ingate
in communion she would say in her heart to Miss Ingate: "You are
disloyal to me." ...
Was it possible that she had confided to Miss Ingate her fearful secret?
The conversation appeared to her unreal now. She went over her plan.
In the afternoon her father was always out, and to-morrow afternoon
her mother would be out too. She would have a few things in a light

bag that she could carry--her mother's bag! She would put on her best
clothes and a veil from her mother's wardrobe. She would take the 4.5
p.m. train. The stationmaster would be at his tea then. Only the
booking-clerk and the porter would see her, and neither would dare to
make an observation. She would ask for a return ticket to Ipswich; that
would allay suspicion, and at Ipswich she would book again. She had
cut out the addresses of the boarding-houses. She would have to buy
things in London. She knew of two shops--Harrod's and Shoolbred's;
she had seen their catalogues. And the very next morning after arrival
she would go to Pitman's School. She would change the first of the £5
notes at the station and ask for plenty of silver. She glanced at the
unlimited wealth still crushed in her hand, and then she carefully
dropped the fortune down the neck of her frock.... Stealing? She
repulsed the idea with violent disdain. What she had accomplished
against her father was not a crime, but a vengeance.... She would never
be found in London. It was impossible. Her plan seemed to her to be
perfect in each detail, except one. She was not the right sort of girl to
execute it. She was very shy. She suspected that no other girl could
really be as shy as she was. She recalled dreadful rare moments with
her mother in strange drawing-rooms. Still, she would execute the plan
even if she died of fright. A force within her would compel her to
execute it. This force did not make for happiness; on the contrary, it
uncomfortably scared her; but it was irresistible.
Something on the brow of the road from Colchester attracted her
attention. It was a handcart, pushed by a labourer and by Police
Inspector Keeble, whom she liked. Following the handcart over the
brow came a loose procession of villagers, which included no children,
because the children were in school. Except on a Sunday Audrey had
never before seen a procession of villagers, and these villagers must
have been collected out of the fields, for the procession was going in
the direction of, and not away from, the village. The handcart was
covered with a tarpaulin.... She knew what had happened; she knew
infallibly. Skirting the boundary of the grounds, she reached the main
entrance to Flank Hall thirty seconds before the handcart. The little dog,
delighted in a new adventure, yapped ecstatically at her heels, and then
bounded onwards to meet the Inspector and the handcart.

"Run and tell yer mother, Miss Moze," Inspector Keeble called out in a
carrying whisper. "There's been an accident. He ditched the car near
Ardleigh cross-roads, trying to avoid some fowls."
Mr. Moze, hurrying too fast to meet the Bishop of Colchester, had