“Why particularly now?” inquired Betty.
Lady Anstruthers flushed and looked shy and awkward.
“Because of—you. I don’t know what he would say. I don’t know what he would do.”
“To me?” said Betty.
“It would be sure to be something unreasonable and wicked,” said Lady Anstruthers. “It would, Betty.”
“I wonder what it would be?” Betty said musingly.
“He has told lies for years to keep you all from me. If he came now, he would know that he had been found out. He would say that I had told you things. He would be furious because you have seen what there is to see. He would know that you could not help but realise that the money he made me ask for had not been spent on the estate. He,— Betty, he would try to force you to go away.”
“I wonder what he would do?” Betty said again musingly. She felt interested, not afraid.
“It would be something cunning,” Rosy protested. “It would be something no one could expect. He might be so rude that you could not remain in the room with him, or he might be quite polite, and pretend he was rather glad to see you. If he was only frightfully rude we should be safer, because that would not be an unexpected thing, but if he was polite, it would be because he was arranging something hideous, which you could not defend yourself against.”
“Can you tell me,” said Betty quite slowly, because, as she looked down at the carpet, she was thinking very hard, “the kind of unexpected thing he has done to you?” Lifting her eyes, she saw that a troubled flush was creeping over Lady Anstruthers’ face.
“There—have been—so many queer things,” she faltered. Then Betty knew there was some special thing she was afraid to talk about, and that if she desired to obtain illuminating information it would be well to go into the matter.
“Try,” she said, “to remember some particular incident.”
Lady Anstruthers looked nervous.
“Rosy,” in the level voice, “there has been a particular incident—and I would rather hear of it from you than from him.
Rosy’s lap held little shaking hands.
“He has held it over me for years,” she said breathlessly. “He said he would write about it to father and mother. He says he could use it against me as evidence in—in the divorce court. He says that divorce courts in America are for women, but in England they are for men, and—he could defend himself against me.”
The incongruity of the picture of the small, faded creature arraigned in a divorce court on charges of misbehaviour would have made Betty smile if she had been in smiling mood.
“What did he accuse you of?”
“That was the—the unexpected thing,” miserably.
Betty took the unsteady hands firmly in her own.
“Don’t be afraid to tell me,” she said. “He knew you so well that he understood what would terrify you the most. I know you so well that I understand how he does it. Did he do this unexpected thing just before you wrote to father for the money?” As she quite suddenly presented the question, Rosy exclaimed aloud.
“How did you know?” she said. “You—you are like a lawyer. How could you know?”
How simple she was! How obviously an easy prey! She had been unconsciously giving evidence with every word.
“I have been thinking him over,” Betty said. “He interests me. I have begun to guess that he always wants something when he professes that he has a grievance.”
Then with drooping head, Rosy told the story.
“Yes, it happened before he made me write to father for so much money. The vicar was ill and was obliged to go away for six months. The clergyman who came to take his place was a young man. He was kind and gentle, and wanted to help people. His mother was with him and she was like him. They loved each other, and they were quite poor. His name was Ffolliott. I liked to hear him preach. He said things that comforted me. Nigel found out that he comforted me, and—when he called here, he was more polite to him than he had ever been to Mr. Brent. He seemed almost as if he liked him. He actually asked him to dinner two or three times. After dinner, he would go out of the room and leave us together. Oh, Betty!” clinging to her hands, “I was so wretched then, that sometimes I thought I was going out of my mind. I think I looked wild. I used to kneel down and try to pray, and I could not.”
“Yes, yes,” said Betty.
“I used to feel that if I could only have one friend, just one, I could bear it better. Once I said something like that to Nigel. He only shrugged his shoulders and sneered when I said it. But afterwards I knew he had remembered. One evening, when he had asked Mr. Ffolliott to dinner, he led him to talk about religion. Oh, Betty! It made my blood turn cold when he began. I knew he was doing it for some wicked reason. I knew the look in his eyes and the awful, agreeable smile on his mouth. When he said at last, `If you could help my poor wife to find comfort in such things,’ I began to see. I could not explain to anyone how he did it, but with just a sentence, dropped here and there, he seemed to tell the whole story of a silly, selfish, American girl, thwarted in her vulgar little ambitions, and posing as a martyr, because she could not have her own way in everything. He said once, quite casually, `I’m afraid American women are rather spoiled.’ And then he said, in the same tolerant way— `A poor man is a disappointment to an American girl. America does not believe in rank combined with lack of fortune.’ I dared not defend myself. I am not clever enough to think of the right things to say. He meant Mr. Ffolliott to understand that I had married him because I thought he was grand and rich, and that I was a disappointed little spiteful shrew. I tried to act as if he was not hurting me, but my hands trembled, and a lump kept rising in my throat. When we returned to the drawing-room, and at last he left us together, I was praying and praying that I might be able to keep from breaking down.
She stopped and swallowed hard. Betty held her hands firmly until she went on.
“For a few minutes, I sat still, and tried to think of some new subject—something about the church or the
