She heard Harold, in a fragment of conversation, speak to Mr.
Stonehouse of the need of returning to Alaska. That sounded like a word
of doom. In her inmost heart she knew that Harold loved her; and had she
been free she would have herself spoken the words which would have drawn
the full truth to them both. But how could she do so, having the
remembrance of that other episode; when, without the reality of love, she
had declared herself? . . . Oh! the shame of it . . . The folly! . . . And Harold knew it all! How could he ever believe that it was real this
time! . . . By the exercise of that self-restraint which long suffering had taught
her, Stephen so managed to control herself that none of her guests
realised what a blow she had received from a casual word. She bore
herself gallantly till the last moment. After the old fashion of her
youth, she had from the Castle steps seen their departure. Then she took
her way to her own room, and locked herself in. She did not often, in
these days, give way to tears; when she did cry it was as a luxury, and
not from poignant cause. Her deep emotion was dry-eyed as of old. Now,
she did not cry, she sat still, her hands clasped below her knees, with
set white face gazing out on the far-off sea. For hours she sat there
lonely; staring fixedly all the time, though her thoughts were whirling
wildly. At first she had some vague purpose, which she hoped might
eventually work out into a plan. But thought would not come. Everywhere
there was the same beginning: a wild, burning desire to let Harold
understand her feeling towards him; to blot out, with the conviction of
trust and love, those bitter moments when in the madness of her
overstrung passion she had heaped such insult upon him. Everywhere the
same end: an impasse. He seemingly could not, would not, understand. She
knew now that the man had diffidences, forbearances, self-judgments and
self-denials which made for the suppression, in what he considered to be
her interest, of his own desires. This was tragedy indeed! Again and
again came back the remembrance of that bitter regret of her Aunt
Laetitia, which no happiness and no pain of her own had ever been able to
efface:

'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with heart all
aflame! To hope, and hope; till time seemed to have passed away, and all
the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a word
might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back the
glances that could enlighten, to modulate the tones that might betray! To
see all you hoped for passing away . . . !' At last she seemed to understand the true force of pride; which has in it
a thousand forces of its own, positive, negative, restrainful. Oh! how
blind she had been! How little she had learned from the miseries that
the other woman whom she loved had suffered! How unsympathetic she had
been; how self-engrossed; how callous to the sensibilities of others! And
now to her, in her turn, had come the same suffering; the same galling of
the iron fetters of pride, and of convention which is its original
expression! Must it be that the very salt of youth must lose its savour,
before the joys of youth could be won! What, after all, was youth if out
of its own inherent power it must work its own destruction! If youth was
so, why not then trust the wisdom of age? If youth could not act for its
own redemption . . . Here the rudiment of a thought struck her and changed the current of her
reason. A thought so winged with hope that she dared not even try to
complete it! . . . She thought, and thought till the long autumn shadows
fell around her. But the misty purpose had become real. After dinner she went up alone to the mill. It was late for a visit, for
the Silver Lady kept early hours. But she found her friend as usual in
her room, whose windows swept the course of the sun. Seeing that her
visitor was in a state of mental disturbance such as she had once before
exhibited, she blew out the candles and took the same seat in the eastern
window she had occupied on the night which they both so well remembered. Stephen understood both acts, and was grateful afresh. The darkness
would be a help to her in what she had to say; and the resumption of the
old seat and attitude did away with the awkwardness of new confidence. During the weeks that had passed Stephen had kept her friend informed of
the rescue and progress of the injured man. Since the discovery of
Harold's identity she had allowed her to infer her feeling towards him. Shyly she had conveyed her hopes that all the bitter part of the past
might be wiped out. To the woman who already knew of the love that had
always been, but had only awakened to consciousness in the absence of its
object, a hint was sufficient to build upon. She had noticed the gloom
that had of late been creeping over the girl's happiness; and she had
been much troubled about it. But she had thought it wiser to be silent;
she well knew that should unhappily the time for comfort come, it must be
precluded by new and more explicit confidence. So she too had been
anxiously waiting the progress of events. Now; as she put her arms round
the girl she said softly; not in the whisper which implies doubt of some
kind, but in the soft voices which conveys sympathy and trust:

'Tell me, dear child!' And then in broken words shyly spoken, and spoken in such a way that the
silences were more eloquent than the words, the girl conveyed what was in
her heart. The other listened, now and again stroking the beautiful
hair. When all was said, there was a brief pause. The Silver Lady spoke
no word; but the pressure of her delicate hand conveyed sympathy. In but a half-conscious way, in words that came so shrinkingly through
the darkness that they hardly reached the ear bent low to catch them,
came Stephen's murmured thought:

'Oh, if he only knew! And I can't tell him; I can't! dare not! I must
not. How could I dishonour him by bearing myself towards him as to that
other . . . worthless . . . ! Oh! the happy, happy girls, who have
mothers . . . !' All the muscles of her body seemed to shrink and
collapse, till she was like an inert mass at the Silver Lady's feet. But the other understood! After a long, long pause; when Stephen's sobbing had died away; when
each muscle of her body had become rigid on its return to normal calm;
the Silver Lady began to talk of other matters, and conversation became
normal. Stephen's courage seemed somehow to be restored, and she talked
brightly. Before they parted the Silver Lady made a request. She said in her
natural voice:

'Couldst thou bring that gallant man who saved so many lives, and to whom
the Lord was so good in the restoration of his sight, to see me? Thou
knowest I have made a resolution not to go forth from this calm place
whilst I may remain. But I should like to see him before he returns to
that far North where he has done such wonders.