The Helpmate | Page 5

a deftness no indifference could impair. Yesterday she had had delight in that new garment and in her own appearance. She knew that Majendie admired her for her distinction and refinement. Now she wondered what he could have seen in her--after Lady Cayley. At Lady Cayley's personality she had not permitted herself so much as to guess. Enough that the woman was notorious--infamous.
There was a knock at the door, the low knock she had come to know, and Majendie entered in obedience to her faint call.
The hours had changed him, given his bright face a tragic, submissive look, as of a man whipped and hounded to her feet.
He glanced first at the tray, to see if she had eaten her breakfast.
"There are some things I should like to say to you, with your permission. But I think we can discuss them better out of doors."
He looked round the disordered room. The associations of the place were evidently as painful to him as they were to her.
They went out. The parade was deserted at that early hour, and they found an empty seat at the far end of it.
"I, too," she said, "have things that I should like to say."
He looked at her gravely.
"Will you allow me to say mine first?"
"Certainly; but I warn you, they will make no difference."
"To you, possibly not. They make all the difference to me. I'm not going to attempt to defend myself. I can see the whole thing from your point of view. I've been thinking it over. Didn't you say that what you heard you had not heard from Edith?"
"From Edith? Never!"
"When did you hear it, then?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"From some one in the hotel?"
"Yes."
"From whom? Not that it matters."
"From those women who came yesterday. I didn't know whom they were talking about. They were talking quite loud. They didn't know who I was."
"You say you didn't know whom they were talking about?"
"Not at first--not till you came in. Then I knew."
"I see. That was the first time you had heard of it?"
Her lips parted in assent, but her voice died under the torture.
"Then," he said, "I am profoundly sorry. If I had realised that, I would not have spoken to you as I did."
The memory of it stung her.
"That," she said, "was--in any circumstances--unpardonable."
"I know it was. And I repeat, I am profoundly sorry. But, you see, I thought you knew all the time, and that you had consented to forget it. And I thought, don't you know, it was--well, rather hard on me to have it all raked up again like that. Now I see how very hard it was on you, dear. Your not knowing makes all the difference."
"It does indeed. If I had known----"
"I understand. You wouldn't have married me?"
"I should not."
"Dear--do you suppose I didn't know that?"
"I know nothing."
"Do you remember the day I asked you why you cared for me, and you said it was because you knew I was good?"
Her lip trembled.
"And of course I know it's been an awful shock to you to discover that--I--was not so good."
She turned away her face.
"But I never meant you to discover it. Not for yourself, like this. I couldn't have forgiven myself--after what you told me. I meant to have told you myself--that evening--but my poor little sister promised me that she would. She said it would be easier for you to hear it from her. Of course I believed her. There were things she could say that I couldn't."
"She never said a word."
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly. Except--yes--she did say----"
It was coming back to her now.
"Do you mind telling me exactly what she said?"
"N--no. She made me promise that if I ever found things in you that I didn't understand, or that I didn't like----"
"Well--what did she make you promise?"
"That I wouldn't be hard on you. Because, she said, you'd had such a miserable life."
"Poor Edith! So that was the nearest she could get to it. Things you didn't understand and didn't like!"
"I didn't know what she meant."
"Of course you didn't. Who could? But I'm sorry to say that Edith made me pretty well believe you did."
He was silent a while, trying to fathom the reason of his sister's strange duplicity. Apparently he gave it up.
"You can't be a brute to a poor little woman with a bad spine," said he; "but I'm not going to forgive Edith for that."
Anne flamed through her pallor. "For what?" she said. "For not having had more courage than yourself? Think what you put on her."
"I didn't. She took it on herself. Edith's got courage enough for anybody. She would never admit that her spine released her from all moral obligations. But I suppose she meant well."
The spirit of the grey, cold morning seemed to have settled upon Anne. She gazed sternly out over the eastern