possessed with so vehement a passion. Indeed he had often doubted whether Emily’s was a passionate nature; at times she was almost cold—appeared so, in his thought of her—and never had she given way to that self-forgetful ardour which was so common in Beatrice. Sweat broke out upon his forehead as he saw the tragic issues to which his life was tending. There was no retreat, save by a second act of apostasy so unspeakably shameful that the brand of it would drive him to self-destruction. He had made his choice, or had been driven upon it by the powers which ruled his destiny; it only remained to have the courage of his resolve and to defy consequences. At least it was in no less a cause than that of his life’s one love. There was no stamp of turpitude on the end for which he would sacrifice so much and occasion so much misery.
He passed the time in his own rooms till the afternoon of the following day; then, at the customary hour, he set forth to visit Beatrice. Would she see him? In his heart he hoped that she would refuse to; yet he dreaded lest he should be told that she was too unwell. It was a new thing in Wilfrid’s experience to approach any door with shame and dread; between his ringing the bell and the servant’s answer he learnt ‘well what those words mean.
He was admitted as usual, the servant making no remark. As usual, he was led to Beatrice’s room.
She was sitting in the chair she always occupied, and was dressed with the accustomed perfection. But her face was an index to the sufferings she had endured this past week. As soon as the door had closed, she stood to receive him, but not with extended hand. Her eyes were fixed upon him steadily, and Wilfrid, with difficulty meeting them, experienced a shook of new fear, a kind of fear he could not account for. Outwardly she was quite calm; it was something in her look, an indefinable suggestion of secret anguish, that impressed him so. He did not try to take her hand, but, having laid down his hat, came near to her and spoke as quietly as he could.
‘May I speak to you of what passed between us last Monday?’
‘How can we avoid speaking of it?’ she replied, in a low voice, her eyes still searching him.
‘I ought to have come to see you before this,’ Wilfrid continued, taking the seat to which she pointed, whilst she also sat down. ‘I could not.’
‘I have been expecting you,’ Beatrice said, in an emotionless way.
The nervous tension with which he had come into her presence had yielded to a fit of trembling. Coldness ran along his veins; his tongue refused its office; his eyes sank before her gaze.
‘I felt sure you would come to-day,’ Beatrice continued, with the same absence of pronounced feeling. ‘If not, I must have gone to your house. What do you wish to say to me?’
‘That which I find it very difficult to say. I feel that after what happened on Monday we cannot be quite the same to each other. I fear I said some things that were not wholly true.’
Beatrice seemed to be holding her breath. Her face was marble. She sat unmoving.
‘You mean,’ she said at length, ‘that those letters represented more than you were willing to confess?’
It was calmly asked. Evidently Wilfrid had no outbreak of resentment to fear. He would have preferred it to this dreadful self-command.
‘More,’ he answered, ‘than I felt at the time. I spoke no word of conscious falsehood.’
‘Has anything happened to prove to you what you then denied?’
He looked at her in doubt. Could she in any way have learnt what had come to pass? Whilst talking, he had made up his mind to disclose nothing definitely; he would explain his behaviour merely as arising from doubt of himself. It would make the rest easier for her to bear hereafter.
‘I have read those letters again,’ he answered.
‘And you have learnt that you never loved me?’
He held his eyes down, unable to utter words. Beatrice also was silent for a long time. At length she said—
‘I think you are keeping something from me?’
He raised his face.
‘Has nothing else happened?’ she asked, with measured tone, a little sad, nothing more.
The truth was forced from him, and its utterance gave him a relief which was in itself a source of new agitation.
‘Yes, something else has happened.’
‘I knew it.’
‘How did you—?’
‘I felt it. You have met her again.’
Again he was speechless. Beatrice asked—
‘Does she live in London?’
‘She does.’
‘You have met her, and have—have wished that you were free?’
‘Beatrice, I have done worse. I have acted as though I were free.’
She shook, as if a blow had fallen upon her. Then a smile came to her lips.
‘You have asked her again to be your wife?’
‘I have.’
‘And she has consented?’
‘Because I deceived her at the same time that I behaved dishonourably to you.’
