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He went on hinting at the scandal in the manner of the personal columns in newspapers, and drawing a number of obvious morals. The Griffith family were sitting in their pew well in view of the congregation; and losing even the shadow of decency, the people turned round and stared at them, ghoul-like…. Robert Griffith sat in the corner with his head bent down, huddled up, his rough face speaking in all its lines the terrible humiliation; his hair was all dishevelled. He was not more than fifty, and he looked an old man. But Mrs Griffith sat next him, very erect, not leaning against the back, with her head well up, her mouth firmly closed, and she looked straight in front of her, her little eyes sparkling, as if she had not an idea that a hundred people were staring at her. In the other corner was George, very white, looking up at the roof in simulation of indifference. Suddenly a sob came from the Griffiths’ pew, and people saw that the father had broken down; he seemed to forget where he was, and he cried as if indeed his heart were broken. The great tears ran down his cheeks in the sight of all–the painful tears of men; he had not even the courage to hide his face in his hands. Still Mrs Griffith made no motion, she never gave a sign that she heard her husband’s agony; but two little red spots appeared angrily on her cheek bones, and perhaps she compressed her lips a little more tightly….

V

Six months passed. One evening, when Mr Griffith was standing at the door after work, smoking his pipe, the postman handed him a letter. He changed colour and his hand shook when he recognised the handwriting. He turned quickly into the house.

‘A letter from Daisy,’ he said. They had not replied to her first letter, and since then had heard nothing.

‘Give it me,’ said his wife.

He drew it quickly towards him, with an instinctive gesture of retention.

‘It’s addressed to me.’

‘Well, then, you’d better open it.’

He looked up at his wife; he wanted to take the letter away and read it alone, but her eyes were upon him, compelling him there and then to open it.

‘She wants to come back,’ he said in a broken voice.

Mrs Griffith snatched the letter from him.

‘That means he’s left her,’ she said.

The letter was all incoherent, nearly incomprehensible, covered with blots, every other word scratched out. One could see that the girl was quite distraught, and Mrs Griffith’s keen eyes saw the trace of tears on the paper…. It was a long, bitter cry of repentance. She begged them to take her back, repeating again and again the cry of penitence, piteously beseeching them to forgive her.

‘I’ll go and write to her,’ said Mr Griffith.

‘Write what?’

‘Why–that it’s all right and she isn’t to worry; and we want her back, and that I’ll go up and fetch her.’

Mrs Griffith placed herself between him and the door.

‘What d’you mean?’ she cried. ‘She’s not coming back into my house.’

Mr Griffith started back.

‘You don’t want to leave her where she is! She says she’ll kill herself.’

‘Yes, I believe that,’ she replied scornfully; and then, gathering up her anger, ‘D’you mean to say you expect me to have her in the house after what she’s done? I tell you I won’t. She’s never coming in this house again as long as I live; I’m an honest woman and she isn’t. She’s a–‘ Mrs Griffith called her daughter the foulest name that can be applied to her sex.

Mr Griffith stood indecisively before his wife.

‘But think what a state she’s in, mother. She was crying when she wrote the letter.’

‘Let her cry; she’ll have to cry a lot more before she’s done. And it serves her right; and it serves you right. She’ll have to go through a good deal more than that before God forgives her, I can tell you.’