"For the present," she answered, "I beg you to stay. But only so if it
is indeed true that your presence is not really required in Jamaica." "I swear, Catherine, that all goes sufficiently well there." Again he
fixed his honest, ardent eyes on her face. And now James Mottram was filled with a great exultation of spirit. He
felt that Catherine's soul, incapable of even the thought of evil,
shamed and made unreal the temptation which had seemed till just now one
which could only be resisted by flight. Catherine was right; he had been
over scrupulous. There was proof of it in the blessed fact that even now, already, the
poison which had seemed to possess him, that terrible longing for
another man's wife, had left him, vanishing in that same wife's pure
presence. It was when he was alone--alone in his great house on the
hill, that the devil entered into him, whispering that it was an awful
thing such a woman as was Catherine, sensitive, intelligent, and in her
beauty so appealing, should be tied to such a being as was Charles
Nagle--poor Charles, whom every one, excepting his wife and one loyal
kinsman, called mad. And yet now it was for this very Charles that
Catherine asked him to stay, for the sake of that unhappy, distraught
man to whom he, James Mottram, recognized the duty of a brother. "We will both forget what you have just told me," she said gently, and
he bowed his head in reverence. They were now on the last step of the stone stairway leading to the
terrace. Mrs. Nagle turned to her companion; he saw that her eyes were very
bright, and that the rose-red colour in her cheeks had deepened as if
she had been standing before a great fire. As they came within sight of Charles Nagle and of the old priest,
Catherine put out her hand. She touched Mottram on the arm--it was a
fleeting touch, but it brought them both, with beating hearts, to a
stand. "James," she said, and then she stopped for a moment--a moment
that seemed to contain æons of mingled rapture and pain--"one word about
Mr. Dorriforth." The commonplace words dropped them back to earth. "Did
you wish him to stay with you till to-morrow? That will scarcely be
possible, for to-morrow is St. Catherine's Day." "Why, no," he said quickly. "I will not take him home with me to-night. All my plans are now changed. My will can wait"--he smiled at her--"and
so can my confession." "No, no!" she cried almost violently. "Your confession must not wait,
James----"

"Aye, but it must," he said, and again he smiled. "I am in no mood for
confession, Catherine." He added in a lower tone, "you've purged me of
my sin, my dear--I feel already shriven." Shame of a very poignant quality suddenly seared Catherine Nagle's soul. "Go on, you," she said breathlessly, though to his ears she seemed to
speak in her usual controlled and quiet tones, "I have some orders to
give in the house. Join Charles and Mr. Dorriforth. I will come out
presently." James Mottram obeyed her. He walked quickly forward. "Good news,
Charles," he cried. "These railway men whose presence so offends you go
for good to-morrow! Reverend sir, accept my hearty greeting." *       *       *       *       *

Catherine Nagle turned to the right and went into the house. She
hastened through the rooms in which, year in and year out, she spent
her life, with Charles as her perpetual, her insistent companion. She
now longed for a time of recollection and secret communion, and so she
instinctively made for the one place where no one, not even Charles,
would come and disturb her. Walking across the square hall, she ran up the broad staircase leading
to the gallery, out of which opened the doors of her bedroom and of her
husband's dressing-room. But she went swiftly past these two closed
doors, and made her way along a short passage which terminated abruptly
with a faded red baize door giving access to the chapel. Long, low-ceilinged and windowless, the chapel of Edgecombe Manor had
remained unaltered since the time when there were heavy penalties
attached both to the celebration of the sacred rites and to the hearing
of Mass. The chapel depended for what fresh air it had on a narrow door
opening straight on to ladder-like stairs leading down directly and out
on to the terrace below. It was by this way that the small and scattered
congregation gained access to the chapel when the presence of a priest
permitted of Mass being celebrated there. Catherine went up close to the altar rails, and sat down on the
arm-chair placed there for her sole use. She felt that now, when about
to wrestle with her soul, she could not kneel and pray. Since she had
been last in the chapel, acting sacristan that same morning, life had
taken a great stride forward, dragging her along in its triumphant wake,
a cruel and yet a magnificent conqueror. Hiding her face in her hands, she lived again each agonized and
exquisite moment she had lived through as there had fallen on her ears
the words of James Mottram's shamed confession. Once more her heart was
moved to an exultant sense of happiness that he should have said these
things to her--of happiness and shrinking shame.... But soon other thoughts, other and sterner memories were thrust upon
her. She told herself the bitter truth. Not only had she led James
Mottram into temptation, but she had put all her woman's wit to the task
of keeping him there. It was her woman's wit--but Catherine Nagle called
it by a harsher name--which had enabled her to make that perilous rock
on which she and James Mottram now stood heart to heart together,
appear, to him at least, a spot of sanctity and safety. It was she, not
the man who had gazed at her with so ardent a belief in her purity and
honour, who was playing traitor--and traitor to one at once confiding
and defenceless....

Then, strangely, this evocation of Charles brought her burdened
conscience relief. Catherine found sudden comfort in remembering her
care, her tenderness for Charles. She reminded herself fiercely that
never had she allowed anything to interfere with her wifely duty. Never? Alas! she remembered that there had come a day, at a time when James
Mottram's sudden defection had filled her heart with pain, when she had
been unkind to Charles. She recalled his look of bewildered surprise,
and how he, poor fellow, had tried to sulk--only a few hours later to
come to her, as might have done a repentant child, with the words, "Have
I offended you, dear love?" And she who now avoided his caresses had
kissed him of her own accord with tears, and cried, "No, no, Charles,
you never offend me--you are always good to me!" There had been a moment to-day, just before she had taunted James
Mottram with being over-scrupulous, when she had told herself that she
could be loyal to both of these men she loved and who loved her, giving
to each a different part of her heart.