Almshouses -- Fiction; Older women -- Fiction; Villages -- England -- Fiction; Women cleaning personnel -- Fiction
She spared another second from the keyhole to throw her a fresh
impudent glance, but her fellow-candidate did not answer. Turning
resolutely away, she marched steadily towards the hill, wishing in
every nerve that she could demean herself to stand in Martha Jane’s
place. She hadn’t gone far, however, taking the hill slowly because
of her heart, when the school-door had suddenly opened, and, as it
were, flung the Committee into the road. One or two of them had
hurriedly passed her, smiling as they went, and the parson had thrown
her a pleasant greeting and lifted his hat. They couldn’t have looked
at her like that, she told herself triumphantly, if they hadn’t given
her the house; and the heart about which there was just a little
doubt became so thrilled that it threatened to drop her down in a
dead faint.
All the evening she had looked for a letter, knowing all the time
that it was too early to expect it, and rebuking herself for
impatience and greed. But it had not come, in spite of her hopes,
and nobody she saw seemed to have the faintest notion of what had
happened. Anyhow, she was sure that there would be a letter this
morning, either by post or hand; or, instead of a letter, a personal
message. She was as certain about it as she was certain of Heaven. It
was only a question of waiting until the manna should choose to fall.
Over the muslin half-blind masking the little window, she saw a
telegraph-boy come riding up, wriggling his bicycle from side to side
of the road after his usual fashion; and, as on the day before, her
heart jumped so that her breath caught and her eyes blurred. Just
for a moment she wondered wildly whether they could possibly have
telegraphed the news, waiting for the slither of light-descending
feet and the batter of Government on the door. Nothing happened,
however, and presently she relaxed her muscles, released her breath
and rubbed her eyes; reproving herself with a shrug of her shoulders
and a half-ashamed laugh for being so foolish as to imagine that the
wire could possibly have been meant for her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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