Part 51 (1/2)

”Not quite,” he said. ”But I knew at once. I could see which of them it must be.”

The subject at last opened between them, Hilda felt an extraordinary solace and relief. He stood by the bedside, in black, with a great breastplate of white, his hair rough, his hands in his pockets. She thought he had a fine face; she thought of him as, at such a time, her superior; she wanted powerfully to adopt his att.i.tude, to believe in everything he said. They were talking together in safety, quietly, gravely, amicably, withdrawn and safe in the strange house--he benevolent and a.s.suaging and comprehending, she desiring the balm which he could give. It seemed to her that they had never talked to each other in such tones.

”Isn't it awful--awful?” she exclaimed.

”It is,” said Edwin, and added carefully, tenderly: ”I suppose he _is_ innocent.”

She might have flown at him: ”That's just like you--to a.s.sume he isn't!”

But she replied:

”I'm quite sure of it. I say--I want you to read all the letters I've had from Mrs. Cannon. I've got them here. They're in my bag there.

Read them now. Of course I always meant to show them to you.”

”All right,” he agreed, drew a chair to the dressing-table where the bag was, found the letters, and read them. She waited, as he read one letter, put it down, read another, laid it precisely upon the first one, with his terrible exact.i.tude and orderliness, and so on through the whole packet.

”Yes,” said he at the end, ”I should say he's innocent this time, right enough.”

”But something ought to be done!” she cried. ”Don't you think something ought to be done, Edwin?”

”Something has been done. Something is being done.”

”But something else!”

He got up and walked about the room.

”There's only one thing to be done,” he said.

He came towards her, and stood over her again, and the candle on the night-table lighted his chin and the s.p.a.ce between his eyelashes and his eyebrows. He timidly touched her hair, caressing it. They were absolutely at their ease together in the intimacy of the bedroom. In her brief relations with George Cannon there had not been time to establish anything like such intimacy. With George Cannon she had always had the tremors of the fawn.

”What is it?”

”Wait. That's all. It's not the slightest use trying to hurry these public departments. You can't do it. You only get annoyed for nothing at all. You can take that from me, my child.”

He spoke with such delicate persuasiveness, such an evident desire to be helpful, that Hilda was convinced and grew resigned. It did not occur to her that he had made a tremendous resolve which had raised him above the Edwin she knew. She thought she had hitherto misjudged and underrated him.

”I wanted to explain to you about that ten pounds,” she said.

”That's all right--that's all right,” said he hastily.

”But I _must_ tell you. You saw Mrs. Cannon's letter asking me for money. Well, I borrowed the ten pounds from Janet. So of course I had to pay it back, hadn't I?”

”How is Janet?” he asked in a new, lighter tone.

”She seems to be going on splendidly, don't you think so?”

”Well then, we'll go home to-morrow.”

”Shall we?”