Sanctuary | Page 7

him and
make inquiries, he found that the witnesses, if there had been any, were
dispersed and undiscoverable. The whole question hinged on Arthur's
statement to his brother. Suppress that statement, and the claim
vanished, and with it the scandal, the humiliation, the life-long burden
of the woman and child dragging the name of Peyton through heaven
knew what depths. He had thought of that first, Denis swore, rather
than of the money. The money, of course, had made a difference,--he
was too honest not to own it--but not till afterward, he declared--would
have declared on his honour, but that the word tripped him up, and sent
a flush to his forehead.
Thus, in broken phrases, he flung his defence at her: a defence
improvised, pieced together as he went along, to mask the crude
instinctiveness of his act. For with increasing clearness Kate saw, as
she listened, that there had been no real struggle in his mind; that, but
for the grim logic of chance, he might never have felt the need of any
justification. If the woman, after the manner of such baffled huntresses,
had wandered off in search of fresh prey, he might, quite sincerely,
have congratulated himself on having saved a decent name and an
honest fortune from her talons. It was the price she had paid to establish

her claim that for the first time brought him to a startled sense of its
justice. His conscience responded only to the concrete pressure of facts.
It was with the anguish of this discovery that Kate Orme locked herself
in at the end of their talk. How the talk had ended, how at length she
had got him from the room and the house, she recalled but confusedly.
The tragedy of the woman's death, and of his own share in it, were as
nothing in the disaster of his bright irreclaimableness. Once, when she
had cried out, "You would have married me and said nothing," and he
groaned back, "But I have told you," she felt like a trainer with a lash
above some bewildered animal.
But she persisted savagely. "You told me because you had to; because
your nerves gave way; because you knew it couldn't hurt you to tell."
The perplexed appeal of his gaze had almost checked her. "You told me
because it was a relief; but nothing will really relieve you--nothing will
really help you--till you have told some one who--who will hurt you."
"Who will hurt me--?"
"Till you have told the truth as--as openly as you lied."
He started up, ghastly with fear. "I don't understand you."
"You must confess, then--publicly--openly--you must go to the judge. I
don't know how it's done."
"To the judge? When they're both dead? When everything is at an end?
What good could that do?" he groaned.
"Everything is not at an end for you--everything is just beginning. You
must clear yourself of this guilt; and there is only one way--to confess
it. And you must give back the money."
This seemed to strike him as conclusive proof of her irrelevance. "I
wish I had never heard of the money! But to whom would you have me
give it back? I tell you she was a waif out of the gutter. I don't believe
any one knew her real name--I don't believe she had one."

"She must have had a mother and father."
"Am I to devote my life to hunting for them through the slums of
California? And how shall I know when I have found them? It's
impossible to make you understand. I did wrong--I did horribly
wrong--but that is not the way to repair it."
"What is, then?"
He paused, a little askance at the question. "To do better--to do my
best," he said, with a sudden flourish of firmness. "To take warning by
this dreadful--"
"Oh, be silent," she cried out, and hid her face. He looked at her
hopelessly.
At last he said: "I don't know what good it can do to go on talking. I
have only one more thing to say. Of course you know that you are
free."
He spoke simply, with a sudden return to his old voice and accent, at
which she weakened as under a caress. She lifted her head and gazed at
him. "Am I?" she said musingly.
"Kate!" burst from him; but she raised a silencing hand.
"It seems to me," she said, "that I am imprisoned--imprisoned with you
in this dreadful thing. First I must help you to get out--then it will be
time enough to think of myself."
His face fell and he stammered: "I don't understand you."
"I can't say what I shall do--or how I shall feel--till I know what you are
going to do and feel."
"You must see how