THE CHOICE
She waited for some time alone in the hall listening for she knew not what.Her departure from the Chapel had been too abrupt to allow her in a moment to shake off the impression of it--above all, the impression of Mr.Crashaw standing there, his arms stretched out to her, his eyes burning her through and through with the urgent insistence of his discovery.
She was tired, her head ached horribly, she would have given everything at that moment for a friend who would care for her and protect her from her own wild fears.She did not know of what she was afraid, but she knew that she felt that she would rather do anything than spend the night in that house.And yet what could she do? How could she escape? She knew that she could not.Oh! if only Martin would come! Where was he? Why could he not carry her off that very night? Why did he not come?
She gazed desperately about her.Could she not leave the house there and then? But where should she go? What could she do without a friend in London? She stood there, clasping and unclasping her hands, looking up at the black stairs, listening for some sound from above, fancying a ghost in every darkening corner of the place.
Then her common sense reasserted itself.It was something, at any rate, that she was out of the Chapel, away from Mr.Crashaw's piercing eyes, Mr.Thurston's rasping voice, Mr.Warlock's reproachful melancholy.She felt this evening as though by struggling with all her strength she could shut the gates upon new experiences that were fighting to enter into her soul, but must, at all costs to her own happiness, be defeated.No such thing as ghosts, no such thing as a God, be He kind, tender, cruel or loving--nothing but what one can see, can touch, can confront with one's physical strength.She had been to a service at a Methodist chapel, her aunt had been ill, to-morrow there would be daylight and people hurrying down the street about their business, work and shops and food and sun...No such thing as ghosts! Nothing but what you can see!