|HIS worst forebodings had come to pass. That was the one feeling which
Harold had on leaving her.
He had scarcely ventured to entertain a hope that the result of his
interview with her and of his confession to her would be different.
He knew her.
That was why he had gone to her without hope. He knew that her nature
was such as made it impossible for her to understand how he could have
practised a fraud upon her; and he knew that understanding is the first
step toward forgiving.
Still, there ever pervades the masculine mind an idea that there is no
limit to a woman’s forgiveness.
The masculine mind has the best of reasons for holding fast to this
idea. It is the result of many centuries of experience of woman--of many
centuries of testing the limits of woman’s forgiveness. The belief that
there is nothing that a woman will not forgive in a man whom she loves,
is the heritage of man--just as the heritage of woman is to believe
that nothing that is done by a man whom she loves, stands in need of
forgiveness.
Thus it is that men and women make (occasionally) excellent companions
for one another, and live together (frequently) in harmony.
Thus it was that, in spite of the fact that his reason and his knowledge
of the nature of Beatrice assured him that his confession of the fraud
in which he had participated against her would not be forgiven by her,
there still remained in the mind of Harold Wynne a shadowy hope that she
might yet be as other women, who, understanding much, forgive much.
He left her presence, feeling that she was no as other women are.
That was the only grain of comfort that remained with him. He loved her
more than he had ever done before, because she was not as other women
are.
She could not understand how that cold distrust had taken possession of
him.
She knew nothing of that world in which he had lived all his life--a
world quite full of worldliness--and therefore she could not understand
how it was that he had sought to bind her to him beyond the possibility
(as he meant her to think) of ever being separated from him. She
had laid all her trust in him. She had not even claimed from him the
privilege of consulting with someone--her father or someone with whom
she might be on more confidential terms--regarding the proposition which
he had made to her. No, she had trusted him implicitly, and yet he had
persevered in regarding her as belonging to the worldly ones among whom
he had lived all his life.
He had lost her.
He had lost her, and he deserved to lose her. This was his thought as
he walked westward. He had not the satisfaction of feeling that he was
badly treated.
The feeling on the part of a man that he has been badly treated by a
woman, usually gives him much greater satisfaction than would result
from his being extremely well treated by the same, or, indeed, by any
other woman.
But this blessed consciousness of being badly treated was denied to
Harold Wynne. He had been the ill-treater, not the ill-treated. He
reflected how he had taken advantage of the peculiar circumstances of
the girl’s life--upon the absence of her father--upon her own trustful
innocence--to carry out the fraud which he had perpetrated upon her.
Under ordinary circumstances and with a girl of an ordinary stamp, such
a fraud would have been impossible. He was well aware that a girl living
under the conditions to which most girls are subjected, would have
laughed in his face had he suggested the advisability of marrying him
privately.
Yes, he had taken a cruel advantage of her and of the freedom which she
enjoyed, to betray her; and the feeling that he had lost her did not
cause him more bitterness than deserved to fall to his lot.
One bitterness of reflection was, however, spared to him, and this was
why he cried again, as he threw himself into a chair, “Thank God--thank
God!”
He had not been seated for long, before his servant entered with a card.
“I told the lady that you were not seeing any one, my lord,” said
Martin.
“The lady?”
Not for a single instant did it occur to his mind that Beatrice had come
to him.
“Yes, my lord; Miss Craven,” said Martin, handing him the card. “But she
said that perhaps you would see her.”
“_Only for a minute_,” were the words written in pencil on Miss Craven’s
card.
“Yes, I will certainly see Miss Craven,” said Harold.
“Very good, my lord.”
She stood at the door. The light outside was very low; so was the light
in the room.
Between two dim lights was where Helen looked her best. A fact of which
she was well aware.
She seemed almost pretty as she stood there.
She had made up pale, which she considered appropriately sympathetic on
her part. And, indeed, there can scarcely be a difference of opinion on
this point.
In delicate matters of taste like this she rarely-made a mistake.
“It was so good of you to come,” said he, taking her hand.
“I could not help it, Harold,” said she.
“Mamma is in the brougham; she desired me to convey to you her deepest
sympathy.”
“I am indeed touched by her thoughtfulness,” said Harold. “You will tell
her so.”
“Mamma is not very strong,” said Helen. “She would not come in with me.
She, too, has suffered deeply. But I felt that I must tell you face to
face how terribly shocked we were--how I feel for you with all my heart.
We have always been good friends--the best of friends, Harold--at least,
I do not know where I should look in the world for another such friend
as you.”
“Yes, we were always good friends, Helen,” said he; “and I hope that we
shall always remain so.”
“We shall--I feel that we shall, Harold,” said she.
Her eyes were overflowing with tears, as she put out a hand to him--a
hand which he took and held between both his own, but without speaking a
word. “I felt that I must go to you if only for a moment--if only to say
to you as I do now, ‘I feel for you with all my heart. You have all my
sympathy.’ That is all I have to say. I knew you would allow me to see
you, and to give you my message. Good-bye.”
“You are so good--so kind--so thoughtful,” said he. “I shall always feel
that you are my friend--my best friend, Helen.”
“And you may always trust in my friendship--my--my--friendship,” said
she. “You will come and see us soon--mamma and me. We should be so glad.
Lady Innisfail wanted me to go with her to Netherford Hall--several of
your sister’s party are going with Lady Innisfail; but of course I could
not think of going. I shall go nowhere for some time--a long time, I
think. We shall be at home whenever you call, Harold.”
“And you may be certain that I shall call soon,” said he. “Pray tell
Mrs. Craven how deeply touched--how deeply grateful I am for
her kindness. And you--you know that I shall never forget your
thoughtfulness, Helen.”
Her eyes were still glistening as he took her hand and pressed it. She
looked at him through her tears; her lips moved, but no words came. She
turned and went down the stairs. He followed her for a few steps, and
then Martin met her, opened the hall-door, and saw her put into the
brougham by her footman.
“Well,” said her mother, when the brougham got upon the wood pavement.
“Well, did you find the poor orphan in tears and comfort him?” Mrs.
Craven was not devoid of an appreciation of humour of a certain form.
She had lived in Birmingham for several years of her life.
“Dear mamma,” said Helen, “I think you may always trust to me to know
what is right to do upon all occasions. My visit was a success. I knew
that it would be a success. I know Harold Wynne.”
“I know one thing,” said Mrs. Craven, “and that is, that he will never
marry you. Whatever Harold Wynne might have done, Lord Fotheringay will
never marry you, my dear. Make up your mind to that.”
Her daughter laughed in the way that a daughter laughs at a prophetic
mother clad in sables, with a suspicion of black velvet and beads
underneath.