Next day, at Ballamoar, after many fruitless efforts to begin,
Stowell was writing to Bessie Collister.
"DEAR BESSIE,--I am sorry to send you this letter and it is very
painful for me to write it. But I cannot allow you to look
forward any longer to something which can never happen.
"The truth is--I must tell you the truth, Bessie--since you went
to Derby Haven I have found that I do not love you as I ought, to
become your husband. That being so, I cannot do you the great
wrong of marrying you. It would not be either for your good or
for mine. And since I cannot marry you I feel that we must part.
I am miserable when I say this, but I see that in justice to you,
as well as to myself, nothing else can be...."
He could go no further. A wave of tenderness towards Bessie came
over him. He had visions of the girl receiving and reading his
letter. It would be at night in her little bedroom, perhaps--the
room in which she burnt her candle to learn her lessons.
No, it would be too cruel, too cowardly. He would not write--he
would go to Derby Haven and break the news to the girl himself.
But that evoked other and more fearful visions. They would be
walking along the sandy path at Langness with the stark white
lighthouse at the end of it. "Bessie," he would be saying, "We must
part; it will be better for both of us. It has all been my fault.
You have nothing to reproach yourself with. But you must try to
forget me, and if there is anything else I can do...." And then the
reproaches, the recriminations, the tears, the supplications, the
appeals: "Don't throw me over! You promised to stand up for me, you
know. I will be good."
It would be terrible. It would make his heart bleed. Nevertheless
he must bear it. It was a part of his punishment.
He had torn up his letter and was putting his hand on the bell to
order the dog-cart to be brought round to take him to the railway
station, when a servant came into the room and said,
"Mr. Alick Gell to see you, sir."
Gell came in with a gloomy and half-shamefaced look. His tall figure
was bent, his fair hair was disordered, and his voice trembled as he
said,
"Can't we take a walk in the wood, old fellow? I have something to
say."
"I don't know how to tell you," he began. They were crossing the
lawn towards the plantation. "Its about Bessie."
"Bessie?"
"I .... I'm madly in love with her."
Stowell stopped and looked without speaking into Gell's twitching
face.
"I knew you wouldn't be able to believe it, but don't look at me like
that."
"Tell me," said Stowell.
And then, stammering and trembling, Gell told his story. He didn't
know how it began. Perhaps it was pity. He had been sorry for the
girl, over there in that lonely place, so he went down at first just
to cheer her up. Then he had found himself going frequently, buying
her presents and taking her out for walks. When he had realised how
things were he had tried to pull up, but it was too late. He had
struggled to be loyal--to strengthen himself by talking of
Stowell--praising him to the girl, excusing him for not coming to see
her--but it was useless. His pity had developed into love, and
before he had known what he was doing Bessie was in his arms. At the
next instant he had felt like a traitor. He was frantically happy
and yet he wanted to kill himself.
"It was terrible," he said. "I couldn't sleep at night for thinking
of it. Bessie wanted you to be told. In fact she wrote you a
letter, saying we couldn't help loving each other, and asking you to
release her. But I couldn't let her go that far. 'Then go to
Ballamoar and tell him yourself,' she said. And at last I've come.
And now .... now you know."
Stowell listened in silence. His first feeling was one of wounded
pride. He had really been a great fool about the girl! What
fathomless depths of conceit had led him to think she would break her
heart if he gave her up? And then the long struggle between his love
and his duty--what a mountebank Fate seemed to have made of him! But
his next feeling was one of relief--boundless, inexpressible relief.
The iron chain he had been dragging after him had been broken. He
was free!
Gell, who was breathing hard, was watching Stowell from under his
cap, which was pulled down over his forehead. They were walking in a
path that was thick with fallen leaves, and there was no sound for
some moments but that of the rustling under their feet.
"Why don't you speak, old fellow? I've behaved like a cad, I know.
But for God's sake, don't torture me. Strike me in the face with
your fist. I would rather that--upon my soul, I would."
"Alick," said Stowell, putting his arm through Gell's. "I'm going to
tell you something."
"What?"
"Do you know what I was on the point of doing when you came? Going
down to Derby Haven to ask Bessie to let me off."
"Is that true? You're not saying it merely to .... But why?"
"Because what's happened to her has happened to me also--I love
somebody else."
"No? Really? .... But who .... who is the other girl? .... Is it
.... It's Fenella, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"How splendid! I'm glad! And of course I congratulate you .... No?
.... You've not asked her yet? But that will be all right--of course
it will!"
Taking off his cap to fan himself with, Gell broke into fits of half
hysterical laughter. Then he said:
"You don't mind my saying something now that it's all over? No?
Well, to tell you the truth I could never believe you really cared
for Bessie. I thought you were only marrying her as a sort of duty,
having got her into trouble with Dan Baldromma. And it was
so--partly so--wasn't it? That didn't excuse me, though, did it?
Lord, what a relief! I feel as if you had lifted ten tons off my
head."