terminate a brilliant career. The situation had too fantastic a look. Could it be that Beatrice was suffering from some delusion? Had a chance discovery of Emily Hood’s proximity, together perhaps with some ambiguous behaviour on Wilfrid’s part, affected her mind? It was an extreme supposition, but on the whole as easy of acceptance as the story Beatrice had poured forth.
In pursuit of evidence Mrs. Baxendale drove to the Athels’. It was about luncheon-time. She inquired for Wilfrid, and heard with mingled feelings that he was at home. She found him in his study; he had before him a little heap of letters, the contents of a packet he had found on his table on entering a quarter of an hour before.
Mrs. Baxendale regarded him observantly. The results of her examination led her to come to the point at once.
‘I have just left Beatrice,’ she said. ‘She has been telling me an extraordinary story. Do you know what it was?’
‘She has told you the truth,’ Wilfrid replied, simply.
‘And you were married this morning?’
Wilfrid bent his head in assent.
Mrs. Baxendale seated herself.
‘My dear Wilfrid,’ were her next words, ‘you have been guilty of what is commonly called a dishonourable action.’
‘I fear I have. I can only excuse myself by begging you to believe that no other course was open to me. I have simply cut a hard knot. It was better than wasting my own life and others’ lives in despair at its hopelessness.’
Wilfrid was collected. The leap taken, he felt his foot once more on firm ground. He felt, too, that he had left behind him much of which he was heartily ashamed. He was in no mood to feign an aspect of contrition.
‘You will admit,’ observed the lady, ‘that this Cutting of the knot makes a rather harsh severance.’
‘It would be impertinent to say that I am sorry for Beatrice. Her behaviour to me has been incredibly magnanimous, and I feel sure that her happiness as well as my own has been consulted. I don’t know in what sense she has spoken to you—’
‘Very nobly, be sure of it.’
‘I can only thank her and reverence her.’
Mrs. Baxendale remained for a moment in thought.
‘Well,’ she resumed, ‘you know that it is not my part to make useless scenes. I began with my hardest words, and they must stand. Beatrice will not die of a broken heart, happily, and if your wife is one half as noble you are indeed a fortunate man. Perhaps we had better talk no more at present; it is possible you have acted rightly, and I must run no risk of saying unkind things. Is your father informed?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You are leaving town?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘To go to a distance?’
‘No. I shall be in town daily.’
‘You doubtless inform your father before you leave?’
‘I shall do so.’
‘Then we will say good-bye.’
Mrs. Baxendale gave her hand. She did not smile, but just shook her head as she looked Wilfrid steadily in the face.
It was later in the afternoon when she called upon Mrs. Birks. She was conducted to that lady’s boudoir, and there found Mr. Athel senior in colloquy with his sister. The subject of the conversation was unmistakable.
‘You know?’ asked Mrs. Birks, with resignation, as soon as the door was closed behind the visitor.
‘I have come to talk it over with you.’
Mr. Athel was standing with his hands clasped behind him; he was rather redder in the face than usual, and had clearly been delivering himself of ample periods.
‘Really, Mrs. Baxendale,’ he began, ‘I have a difficulty in expressing myself on the subject. The affair is simply monstrous. It indicates a form of insanity. I—uh—I—uh—in truth I don’t know from what point to look at it.’
‘Where is Beatrice?’ Mrs. Birks asked.
‘She will stay with me for a day or two,’ replied Mrs. Baxendale.
‘How—how is she?’ inquired Mr. Athel, sympathetically.
‘Upset, of course, but not seriously, I hope.’
‘Really,’ Mrs. Birks exclaimed, ‘Wilfrid might have had some consideration for other people. Hero are the friendships of a lifetime broken up on his account.’
‘I don’t know that that is exactly the point of view,’ remarked her brother, judicially. ‘One doesn’t expect such things to seriously weigh—I mean, of course, when there is reason on the man’s side. What distresses me is the personal recklessness of the step.’
‘Perhaps that is not so great as it appears,’ put in Mrs. Baxendale, quietly.
‘You defend him?’ exclaimed Mrs. Birks.
