Part 49 (1/2)

She paused beside Catharine, wringing her hands, gathering up as it were her whole strength to pour it--slowly, deliberately--into the words that followed:

”But I--will run no risk of ruining Richard Meynell! As for me--what does it matter what happens to me! And darling Hester!--we could keep it from her--we would! She and I could live abroad. And I don't see how it could disgrace Edith and the girls--people would only say she and Ralph had been very good to me. But Richard Meynell!--with these trials coming on--and all the excitement about him--there'll be ever so many who would be wild to believe it! They won't care how absurd it is--they'll want to _crush_ him! And he--he'll _never_ say a word for himself--to explain--never! Because he couldn't without telling all my story. And that--do you suppose Richard Meynell would ever do _that_?--to any poor human soul that had trusted him?”

The colour had rushed back into her cheeks; she held herself erect, transfigured by the emotion that possessed her. Catharine looked at her in doubt--trouble--amazement. And then, her pure sense divined something--dimly--of what the full history of this soul had been; and her heart melted. She put out her hands and drew the speaker down again into the seat beside her.

”I think you'll have to let him decide that for you. He's a strong man--and a wise man. He'll judge what's right. And I ought to warn you that he'll be here probably--very soon. He wanted to see me.”

Alice opened her startled eyes.

”About this? To see you? I don't understand.”

”I had one of these letters--these wicked letters,” said Catharine reluctantly.

Alice shrank and trembled. ”It's terrible!”--her voice was scarcely to be heard. ”Who is it hates me so?--or Richard?”

There was silence a moment. And in the pause the stress and tumult of nature without, the beating of the wind, and the plas.h.i.+ng of the rain, seemed to be rus.h.i.+ng headlong through the little room. But neither Catharine nor Alice was aware of it, except in so far as it played obscurely on Alice's tortured nerves, fevering and goading them the more.

Catharine's gaze was bent on her companion; her mind was full of projects of help, which were also prayers; moments in that ceaseless dialogue with a Greater than itself, which makes the life of the Christian. And it was as though, by some secret influence, her prayers worked on Alice; for presently she turned in order that she might look straight into the face beside her.

”I'd like to tell you”--she said faintly--”oh--I'd like to tell you!”

”Tell me anything you will.”

”It was when I was so young--just eighteen--like Hester. Oh! but you don't know about Neville--no one does now. People seem all to have forgotten him. But he came into his property here--the Abbey--the old Abbey--just when I was growing up. I saw him here first--but only once or twice. Then we met in Scotland. I was staying at a house near his shooting. And we fell in love. Oh, I knew he was married!--I can never say that I didn't know, even at the beginning. But his wife was so cruel to him--he was very, very unhappy. She couldn't understand him--or make allowances for him--she despised him, and wouldn't live with him. He was miserable--and so was I. My father and mother were dead! I had to live with Ralph and Edith; and they always made me feel that I was in their way. It wasn't their fault!--I _was_ in the way. And then Neville came.

He was so handsome, and so clever--so winning and dear--he could do everything. I was staying with some old cousins in Rosss.h.i.+re, who used to ask me now and then. There were no young people in the house. My cousins were quite kind to me, but I spent a great deal of time alone--and Neville and I got into a way of meeting--in lonely places--on the moors.

No one found out. He taught me everything I ever knew, almost. He gave me books--and read to me. He was sorry for me--and at last--he loved me! And we never looked ahead. Then--in one week--everything happened together. I had to go home. He talked of going to Sandford, and implored me still to meet him. And I thought how Ralph and Edith would watch us, and spy upon us, and I implored him never to go to Sandford when I was at Upcote. We must meet at other places. And he agreed. Then the day came for me to go south. I travelled by myself--and he rode twenty miles to a junction station and joined me. Then we travelled all day together.”

Her voice failed her. She pressed her thin hands together under the onset of memory, and that old conquered anguish which in spite of all the life that had been lived since still smouldered amid the roots of being.

”I may tell you?” she said at last, with a piteous look. Catharine bent over her.

”Anything that will help you. Only remember I don't ask or expect you to say anything.”

”I ought”--said Alice miserably--”I ought--because of Mary.”

Catharine was silent. She only pressed the hand she held. Alice resumed:

”It was a day that decided all my life. We were so wretched. We thought we could never meet again--it seemed as though we were both--with every station we pa.s.sed--coming nearer to something like death--something worse than death. Then--before we got to Euston--I couldn't bear it--I--I gave way. We sent a telegram from Euston to Edith that I was going to stay with a school friend in Cornwall--and that night we crossed to Paris--”

She covered her face with her hands a moment; then went on more calmly:

”You'll guess all the rest. I was a fortnight with him in Paris. Then I went home. In a few weeks Edith guessed--and so did Judith Sabin, who was Edith's maid. Edith made me tell her everything. She and Ralph were nearly beside themselves. They were very strict in those days; Ralph was a great Evangelical, and used to speak at the May meetings. All his party looked up to him so--and consulted him. It was a fearful blow to him. But Edith thought of what to do--and she made him agree. We went abroad, she and I--with Judith. It was given out that Edith was delicate, and must have a year away. We stopped about in little mountain places--and Hester was born at Gren.o.ble. And then for the last and only time, they let Neville come to see me--”

Her voice sank. She could only go on in a whisper.

”Three weeks later he was drowned on the Donegal coast. It was called an accident--but it wasn't. He had hoped and hoped to get his wife to divorce him--and make amends. And when Mrs. Flood's--his wife's--final letter came--she was a Catholic and nothing would induce her--he just took his boat out in a storm, and never came back--”

The story lost itself in a long sobbing sigh that came from the depths of life. When she spoke again it was with more strength:

”But he had written the night before to Richard--Richard Meynell. You know he was the Rector's uncle, though he was only seven years older? I had never seen Richard then. But I had often heard of him from Neville.

Neville had taken a great fancy to him a year or two before, when Richard was still at college, and Neville was in the Guards. They used to talk of religion and philosophy. Neville was a great reader always--and they became great friends. So on his last night he wrote to Richard, telling him everything, and asking him to be kind to me--and Hester. And Richard--who had just been appointed to the living here--came out to the Riviera, and brought me the letter--and the little book that was in his pocket--when they found him. So you see ...”