Indeed, I propose that he
should walk back with me to the Eype. I wish him to witness my new will. And then I may as well go to confession, for it is well to be shriven
before a journey, though for my part I feel ever safer on sea than
land!" Mottram looked straight before him as he spoke. "A journey?" Catherine repeated the words in a low, questioning tone. There had come across her heart a feeling of such anguish that it was as
though her body instead of her soul were being wrenched asunder. In her
extremity she called on pride--and pride, ever woman's most loyal
friend, flew to her aid. "Yes," he repeated, still staring straight in front of him, "I leave
to-morrow for Plymouth. I have had letters from my agent in Jamaica
which make it desirable that I should return there without delay." He
dug his stick into the soft earth as he spoke. James Mottram was absorbed in himself, in his own desire to carry
himself well in his fierce determination to avoid betraying what he
believed to be his secret. But Catherine Nagle knew nothing of this. She almost thought him indifferent. They had come to a steep part of the incline, and Catherine suddenly
quickened her steps and passed him, so making it impossible that he
could see her face. She tried to speak, but the commonplace words she
desired to say were strangled, at birth, in her throat. "Charles will not mind; he will not miss me as he would have missed me
before this unhappy business of the railroad came between us," Mottram
said lamely. She still made no answer; instead she shook her head with an impatient
gesture. Her silence made him sorry. After all, he had been a good
friend to Catherine Nagle--so much he could tell himself without shame. He stepped aside on to the grass, and striding forward turned round and
faced her. The tears were rolling down her cheeks; but she threw back her head and
met his gaze with a cold, almost a defiant look. "You startled me
greatly," she said breathlessly, "and took me so by surprise, James! I
am grieved to think how Charles--nay, how we shall both--miss you. It is
of Charles I think, James; it is for Charles I weep----"

As she uttered the lying words, she still looked proudly into his face
as if daring him to doubt her. "But I shall never forget--I shall ever
think with gratitude of your great goodness to my poor Charles. Two
years out of your life--that's what it's been, James. Too much--too much
by far!" She had regained control over her quivering heart, and it was
with a wan smile that she added, "But we shall miss you, dear, kind
friend." Her smile stung him. "Catherine," he said sternly, "I go because I
must--because I dare not stay. You are a woman and a saint, I a man and
a sinner. I've been a fool and worse than a fool. You say that Charles
to-day called me false friend, traitor! Catherine--Charles spoke more
truly than he knew." His burning eyes held her fascinated. The tears had dried on her cheeks. She was thirstily absorbing the words as they fell now slowly, now
quickly, from his lips. But what was this he was saying? "Catherine, do you wish me to go on?" Oh, cruel! Cruel to put this further weight on her conscience! But she
made a scarcely perceptible movement of assent--and again he spoke. "Years ago I thought I loved you. I went away, as you know well, because
of that love. You had chosen Charles--Charles in many ways the better
fellow of the two. I went away thinking myself sick with love of you,
but it was false--only my pride had been hurt. I did not love you as I
loved myself. And when I got clear away, in a new place, among new
people"--he hesitated and reddened darkly--"I forgot you! I vow that
when I came back I was cured--cured if ever a man was! It was of
Charles, not of you, Catherine, that I thought on my way home. To me
Charles and you had become one. I swear it!" He repeated: "To me you and
Charles were one." He waited a long moment, and then, more slowly, he went on, as if
pleading with himself--with her: "You know what I found here in place of
what I had left? I found Charles a----"

Catherine Nagle shrank back. She put up her right hand to ward off the
word, and Mottram, seizing her hand, held it in his with a convulsive
clasp. "'Twas not the old feeling that came back to me--that I again
swear, Catherine. 'Twas something different--something infinitely
stronger--something that at first I believed to be all noble----"

He stopped speaking, and Catherine Nagle uttered one word--a curious
word. "When?" she asked, and more urgently again she whispered, "When?" "Long before I knew!" he said hoarsely. "At first I called the passion
that possessed me by the false name of 'friendship.' But that poor
hypocrisy soon left me! A month ago, Catherine, I found myself
wishing--I'll say this for myself, it was for the first time--that
Charles was dead. And then I knew for sure what I had already long
suspected--that the time had come for me to go----"

He dropped her hand, and stood before her, abased in his own eyes, but
one who, if a criminal, had had the strength to be his own judge and
pass heavy sentence on himself. "And now, Catherine--now that you understand why I go, you will bid me
God-speed. Nay, more"--he looked at her, and smiled wryly--"if you are
kind, as I know you to be kind, you will pray for me, for I go from you
a melancholy, as well as a foolish man." She smiled a strange little wavering smile, and Mottram was deeply moved
by the gentleness with which Catherine Nagle had listened to his story. He had been prepared for an averted glance, for words of cold
rebuke--such words as his own long-dead mother would surely have
uttered to a man who had come to her with such a tale. *       *       *       *       *

They walked on for a while, and Catherine again broke the silence by a
question which disturbed her companion. "Then your agent's letter was
not really urgent, James?" "The letters of an honest agent always call for the owner," he muttered
evasively. They reached the orchard gate. Catherine held the key in her hand, but
she did not place it in the lock--instead she paused awhile. "Then there
is no special urgency?" she repeated. "And James--forgive me for asking
it--are you, indeed, leaving England because of this--this matter of
which you have just told me?" He bent his head in answer. Then she said deliberately: "Your conscience, James, is too scrupulous. I do not think that there is any reason why you should not stay. When
Charles and I were in Italy," she went on in a toneless, monotonous
voice, "I met some of those young noblemen who in times of pestilence go
disguised to nurse the sick and bury the dead. It is that work of
charity, dear friend, which you have been performing in our unhappy
house. You have been nursing the sick--nay, more, you have been
tending"--she waited, then in a low voice she added--"the dead--the dead
that are yet alive." Mottram's soul leapt into his eyes. "Then you bid me stay?" he asked.