village. But I could not begin to speak because of the lump in my throat. And then, suddenly, but quietly, Mr. Ffolliott got up. And though I dared not lift my eyes, I knew he was standing before the fire, quite near me. And, oh! what do you think he said, as low and gently as if his voice was a woman’s. I did not know that people ever said such things now, or even thought them. But never, never shall I forget that strange minute. He said just this:
” `God will help you. He will. He will.’
“As if it was true, Betty! As if there was a God—and— He had not forgotten me. I did not know what I was doing, but I put out my hand and caught at his sleeve, and when I looked up into his face, I saw in his kind, good eyes, that he knew—that somehow—God knows how—he understood and that I need not utter a word to explain to him that he had been listening to lies.”
“Did you talk to him?” Betty asked quietly.
“He talked to me. We did not even speak of Nigel. He talked to me as I had never heard anyone talk before. Somehow he filled the room with something real, which was hope and comfort and like warmth, which kept my soul from shivering. The tears poured from my eyes at first, but the lump in my throat went away, and when Nigel came back I actually did not feel frightened, though he looked at me and sneered quietly.”
“Did he say anything afterwards?”
“He laughed a little cold laugh and said, `I see you have been seeking the consolation of religion. Neurotic women like confessors. I do not object to your confessing, if you confess your own backslidings and not mine.’ “
“That was the beginning,” said Betty speculatively. “The unexpected thing was the end. Tell me the rest?”
“No one could have dreamed of it,” Rosy broke forth. “For weeks he was almost like other people. He stayed at Stornham and spent his days in shooting. He professed that he was rather enjoying himself in a dull way. He encouraged me to go to the vicarage, he invited the Ffolliotts here. He said Mrs. Ffolliott was a gentlewoman and good for me. He said it was proper that I should interest myself in parish work. Once or twice he even brought some little message to me from Mr. Ffolliott.”
It was a pitiably simple story. Betty saw, through its relation, the unconsciousness of the easily allured victim, the adroit leading on from step to step, the ordinary, natural, seeming method which arranged opportunities. The two had been thrown together at the Court, at the vicarage, the church and in the village, and the hawk had looked on and bided his time. For the first time in her years of exile, Rosy had begun to feel that she might be allowed a friend—though she lived in secret tremor lest the normal liberty permitted her should suddenly be snatched away.
“We never talked of Nigel,” she said, twisting her hands. “But he made me begin to live again. He talked to me of Something that watched and would not leave me—would never leave me. I was learning to believe it. Sometimes when I walked through the wood to the village, I used to stop among the trees and look up at the bits of sky between the branches, and listen to the sound in the leaves—the sound that never stops—and it seemed as if it was saying something to me. And I would clasp my hands and whisper, `Yes, yes,’ `I will,’ `I will.’ I used to see Nigel looking at me at table with a queer smile in his eyes and once he said to me—`You are growing young and lovely, my dear. Your colour is improving. The counsels of our friend are of a salutary nature.’
It would have made me nervous, but he said it almost good-naturedly, and I was silly enough even to wonder if it could be possible that he was pleased to see me looking less ill. It was true, Betty, that I was growing stronger. But it did not last long.”
“I was afraid not,” said Betty.
“An old woman in the lane near Bartyon Wood was ill. Mr. Ffolliott had asked me to go to see her, and I used to go. She suffered a great deal and clung to us both. He comforted her, as he comforted me. Sometimes when he was called away he would send a note to me, asking me to go to her. One day he wrote hastily, saying that she was dying, and asked if I would go with him to her cottage at once. I knew it would save time if I met him in the path which was a short cut. So I wrote a few words and gave them to the messenger. I said, `Do not come to the house. I will meet you in Bartyon Wood.’ “
Betty made a slight movement, and in her face there was a dawning of mingled amazement and incredulity. The thought which had come to her seemed—as Ughtred’s locking of the door had seemed—too wild for modern days.
Lady Anstruthers saw her expression and understood it. She made a hopeless gesture with her small, bony hand.
“Yes,” she said, “it is just like that. No one would believe it. The worst cleverness of the things he does, is that when one tells of them, they sound like lies. I have a bewildered feeling that I should not believe them myself if I had not seen them. He met the boy in the park and took the note from him. He came back to the house and up to my room, where I was dressing quickly to go to Mr. Ffolliott.”
She stopped for quite a minute, rather as if to recover breath.
“He closed the door behind him and came towards me with the note in his hand. And I saw in a second the look that always terrifies me, in his face. He had opened the note and he smoothed out the paper quietly and said, `What is this. I could not help it—I turned cold and began to shiver. I could not imagine what was coming.”
” `Is it my note to Mr. Ffolliott?’ I asked.
” `Yes, it is your note to Mr. Ffolliott,’ and he read it aloud. ` “Do not come to the house. I will meet you in Bartyon Wood.” That is a nice note for a man’s wife to have written, to be picked up and read by a stranger, if your confessor is not cautious in the matter of letters from women–-‘
“When he begins a thing in that way, you may always know that he has planned everything—that you can do nothing—I always know. I knew then, and I knew I was quite white when I answered him:
” `I wrote it in a great hurry, Mrs. Farne is worse. We are going together to her. I said I would meet him—to save time.’
“He laughed, his awful little laugh, and touched the paper.
” `I have no doubt. And I have no doubt that if other persons saw this, they would believe it. It is very likely.
” `But you believe it,’ I said. `You know it is true. No one would be so silly—so silly and wicked as to–-‘ Then I broke down and cried out. `What do you mean? What could anyone think it meant?’ I was so wild that I felt as if I was going crazy. He clenched my wrist and shook me.
