Est-il indispensable, qu'on s'eleve a un point d'ou le
devoir n'apparaisse plus comme un choix de nos sentiments
les plus nobles, mais comme une silencieuse necessite de
toute notre nature.
The following afternoon Fay was sitting in the little morning-room at
Priesthope, trying to write a letter, a long, long letter. Wentworth's
last note to her, just arrived by the second post, was open before her,
telling her that he could not return for two days. And then the door
opened gently and he was before her.
She turned a white, miserable face towards the door. Then as she
suddenly recognised him the colour rushed to her face, and she flew to
him with a cry and locked him in her arms, kissing his shoulder, his
coat, his hands.
He was thunderstruck. Could a few days' absence so profoundly move these
delicate, emotional creatures, whom an all-wise Providence had made
almost too susceptible to masculine charm! He had never seen Fay like
this. But then, he had never seen anything like anything. She withdrew
herself suddenly, and stood a little apart, her face and neck one
carnation of soft shame.
"But you are in London," she said, her lip quivering, her eyes falling
before his. "I have your own word for it that you are still in London."
And she pointed at his letter. "I was not expecting to see you."
A joy so great that it was akin to pain laid its awakening hand on him.
"I am glad you were not expecting me," he said, in a voice that he
hardly recognised as his own. "I'm thankful."
And he drew her back into his arms more moved than he had ever been.
Yes. He was loved. He loved and was loved. He had not known the world
contained anything as great as this. He had always thought that life at
its best was a solitary thing, that passion was a momentary madness with
which he did not care to tamper, that celibacy was a cheap price to pay
for his independence. But he and this woman were one. This was rest and
peace and joy and freedom. This was what he had always wanted, without
knowing he wanted it. One of the many barriers between them went down.
He thought it was the only one.
They sat a long time in silence, his head against her breast. Her face
had become pinched and sharp, the lovely colour had faded. All its
beauty and youth had gone out of it. Her terrified eyes stared at the
wall.
"Speak! Speak now," said the inner voice. "You were too late last time.
Speak now."
* * * * *
"I am very miserable, Fay," in a whisper against her cheek.
Her arms tightened round him.
"Not so miserable now I am with you, but----"
It seemed to Fay that she was holding to her breast the point of the
sword that was to stab her to death.
He raised his head, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. Twice
she had seen tears in those narrow grey eyes before: once when he had
talked to her of Michael in prison, and once when Michael was
exonerated.
They had drawn a little apart.
"When I came here I had not meant to tell you anything about it, I had
decided not to, but--Fay, I can't believe it, I haven't slept all night,
I have known for two days, I only found it out by the merest accident
that that has happened which I never thought could happen, something
impossible." Wentworth's lip quivered. "Michael has deceived me, not by
mistake, not just for a moment, but systematically, purposely--for
years."
There was anger as well as pain in his voice.
"It was about the murder of the Marchese," he said hoarsely, "but I
don't care what it was about. That is not the point. He has deceived me
for reasons of his own. I don't know what they were. And I am afraid, my
darling, he has not stopped there. I am afraid he has deceived you too.
I am afraid he hoodwinked you when he persuaded you to let him hide in
your room. Why did he hide if he wanted to shield the Marchesa? Don't
you see that there was no sense in his hiding, though I never thought of
it till--lately? I always believed in him implicitly, as you have done.
I thought him just the kind of person who _would_ sacrifice himself for
a woman. I can understand doing it. It appeals to a nature like mine. I
was deeply hurt by his reserve about it, since he came home, but I never
thought, it never struck me for one single second that it concealed
anything discreditable."
"It does not," said Fay suddenly.
"My dearest, I am afraid there is no doubt it _does_. What was Michael
doing in the garden at that time of night. You forget that. I am the
last person in the world to think him capable of anything disgraceful,
but I can't resist the conclusion that he was waiting--Oh! Fay, your
ears ought not to be polluted by such things--was waiting about in the
garden because he was attracted by someone in the house."
He felt her hand quiver in his.
How womanly she was, how pure. How could any man have had the heart to
throw dust in those innocent eyes. He kissed the cold hand reverently.
"I hate to speak of such a thing to you, and it somehow seems out of the
question when I think of Michael's character. I had brought him up so
carefully. I had impressed on him my own high code of morals from the
first. And yet--and yet--I am afraid, dearest, that Michael must have
been hanging about to have a word with--don't start so, why do you
tremble?--with your maid."
There was a moment's silence. Fay shook her head. She was unable to
articulate.
"Then why was he there? You must have been very much surprised and
alarmed at his coming to your room so late. And unless he had given you
some reason, you would not have tried to hide him. We always come back
to that. Fay, why _did_ Michael hide?"
Fay struggled to speak. Her white lips moved, but no sound came forth.
"You and the Duke tried to save him from being discovered. We all know
that. The Duke told me so himself."
Another silence. Fay's face became convulsed.
"You are no diplomatist, Fay, thank God. I see very well, my darling,
that you know more than you will say. It is plain to me that in the
goodness of your soul you are trying to shield Michael--_for the second
time_."
He kissed her on the forehead and rose to go.
"Stop!" said Fay, almost inarticulately. "It isn't the second time. I
didn't shield him last time. I let him slide. But I will now ... I want
to tell you ... I must tell you ... Michael has been here, he came when
you were away in London. And he has begged me,--Oh, Wentworth, he has
implored me to--tell you everything."
Wentworth became very red. His face hardened.
"_He_ has begged you to tell me! He has gone behind my back and tried to
depute you to do it, to plead his cause for him. He has not even the
courage to come to me himself. No, Fay, I am going. It is no use
imploring me to stay. I'm not going to listen to you making excuses for
him. I don't blame you, but you ought not to have agreed to do it.
Whatever I ought to know I must hear from Michael himself. I shall go
over and see him to-morrow morning. Even you, dearest, must not come
between--Michael and me."