Late that night, after the two men had left, Charmion and I sat together
over the bedroom fire, and talked and talked. Her lips were opened now,
and she could talk without the old restraint. It seemed a relief to her
to talk. I asked if "Edward" had ever discovered who was the sender of
the fatal letter. "No," she said, "not actually. He is practically
certain, but he did not trouble to bring it home. The mischief was
done. Anyone who had a heart must have been sufficiently punished by
the knowledge of the misery she had caused. He left her to that, but,
oh! Evelyn, what a conception of _love_! to try to poison a man's home
because he had chosen another woman as his wife! Not that I am much
better! I have no right to speak."
Her lips quivered. She confessed to me that, on reading the two
letters, she had been overcome with sorrow and remorse, but that Edward
had refused to listen to her laments. They had both been wrong; each
had an equal need of forgiveness, the suffering in either case had been
intense--not another moment must be wasted! Away with bitterness, away
with remorse, the future lay ahead, it should not be wasted in vain
regrets. Then, blushing and aglow, she told me her plans. "To-morrow--
to-day," she raised her eyes to the clock, and glowed anew, "we are
going by train to a sunny bay in Cornwall, to spend a second honeymoon.
Edward's writing engagement could be fulfilled better in the country
than in town. He had lingered in London for Thorold's sake, not his
own. One month, two months to themselves, they must have, and then"--
she straightened herself as in eager anticipation--"America! I must
take him back, Evelyn! Back to his old home, and his old friends--to
let them all see! Oh! all my life must be spent in making good the
shame I have brought upon him, the misery and blame!"