Part 3 (2/2)

But there it is! One cannot help the way one is made, and I am afraid I am not of those who invariably take the coldly prudent course and stick to it.

I turned the idea over in my mind. I could put down sheets of brown paper--I always have a store--from the door to the fire, and an old mackintosh over the worst armchair, which was to be re-covered. Besides, I had not had a good look at her yet, or made out the real woman under the prison garb. That she was a person of education and refinement may appear hardly credible to my readers, but to one like myself, whose _metier_ it is to probe the secrets of my own heart and those of others--to _me_ it was sufficiently obvious from the first moment that, though I had to deal with a criminal, she was a very exceptional one, and belonging to my own cla.s.s. I went out to the stable, and suggested to her that she should come in.

”How do you know that I am not a man in disguise?” came a voice from the darkness; and it seemed to me, not for the first time, that she was amused at something. ”I'm tall enough. Just think how stupendous it would be if, when I was inside and the door really locked, I proved to be a wicked, devastating, burglarious male.”

”I wish you would not say things like that,” I said. ”On your honour, _are_ you a man?”

She hesitated, and then said in a changed voice:

”I am not. I don't know what I am. I was a woman once, just as a derelict was a s.h.i.+p once. But whatever I am, I am not fit to come into a self-respecting house. I am one solid cake of mud.”

Something in her reluctance made me the more determined. Besides, one of the truths on which I have insisted most strongly in my ”Veil of the Temple” is that if we show full trust and confidence in others, they will prove worthy of that trust. Her coming indoors had now become a matter of principle, and I insisted. I even said I could lend her a dressing-gown and slippers, so that her wet clothes might be dried by the kitchen fire.

She murmured something about a good Samaritan, but still demurred, and asked if I had a bath-room. I said I had.

That decided her. She seemed to have no difficulty in making up her mind. She did not see two sides to things, as I always do myself.

She said that if I liked to allow her to go to the bath-room first, she should be happy to accept my kind invitation for an hour or so. If not, she would stay where she was.

Half an hour later she was sitting opposite me in the parlour, on the other side of the wood fire, sipping her coffee. I had not put down the brown paper or the mackintosh. It was not necessary. Her close-cropped, curly grey hair, still damp from the bath, was parted, and brushed stiffly back over her ears. It must have been very beautiful hair once.

Her thin hands and thinner face and neck looked more like brown parchment than ever, as she sat in the lamplight, my old blue dressing-gown folded negligently round her, and taking picturesque folds which it never did when I was inside it. Those long, gaunt limbs must have been graceful once. Her feet were bare in her slippers--in my slippers, I mean. She looked rather like a well-bred Indian.

It was obvious that she was a lady, but her speech had already told me that. What amazed me most where all amazed me was her self-possession.

I wondered what her impression of me was, as we sat, such a strangely a.s.sorted couple, one on each side of the fire. Did I indeed seem to her the quixotic, impetuous, and yet withal dreamy creature which my books show me to be? But I have often been told by those who know me well that I am much more than my books.

”I have not sat by a fire for how many months?” she said, her black eyes on the logs. ”Let me see, last time was in a lonely cottage on the Cotswolds. It was a night like this, but colder, and a helpless old couple let me in, and allowed me to dry my clothes, and lie by their fire all night. Very unwise of them, wasn't it? I might have murdered them in their beds.”

I began to feel rather uncomfortable.

”You are not undergoing a sentence for murder, are you?” I asked.

She looked at me for a moment, and then said:

”The desperate creature who escaped from gaol three days ago, and who was in for life for the murder of the man she lived with, and whose convict clothes I am wearing--whose clothes, I mean, are at this moment drying before your kitchen fire--is not the same woman who is now drinking your excellent coffee.”

”Do you mean to tell me you have never been in prison?”

”Yes, for a year; but I served my time and finished it four years ago.”

I wrung my hands. I was deeply disappointed in her. Her transparent duplicity, which could impose on no one, not even so unsuspicious a nature as mine, hurt me to the quick.

”Oh! you poor soul,” I said, ”don't lie to me. Indeed it isn't necessary. I will do all I can for you. I will help you to get away. I will give you other clothes, and money, and we will bury these--these garments of shame. But don't, for G.o.d's sake, don't lie to me.”

She looked gravely at me, as if she were measuring me, and seeing, no doubt, that I was not deceived, a dusky red rose for a moment to her face and brow.

”It is not easy to speak the truth to some people,” she said, her eyes dropping once more to the fire, ”even when they are as compa.s.sionate and kind as you are.”

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