She sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her cold
hands, sobbing in all that saddest and bitterest phase of sorrow which
can be to a woman's heart: the sorrow that is dry-eyed and without hope. Presently the habit of caution which had governed her last days woke her
to action. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, locked the letter and
its enclosure in the little jewel-safe let into the wall, and came down
to breakfast. The sense of loss was so strong on her that she forgot herself. Habit
carried her on without will or voluntary effort, and, so faithfully
worked to her good that even the loving eyes of her aunt--and the eyes of
love are keen--had no suspicion that any new event had come into her
life. Not till she was alone in her room that night did Stephen dare to let her
thoughts run freely. In the darkness her mind began to work truly, so
truly that she began at the first step of logical process: to study
facts. And to study them she must question till she found motive. Why had Harold sent her the letter? His own words said that it should be
in her hands. Then, again, he said it might comfort her to know the
letter was safe. How could it comfort her? How did he get possession of
the letter? There she began to understand; her quick intuition and her old knowledge
of Harold's character and her new knowledge of Leonard's, helped her to
reconstruct causes. In his interview with her he had admitted that
Leonard had told him much, all. He would no doubt have refused to
believe him, and Leonard would have shown him, as proof, her letter
asking him to meet her. He would have seen then, as she did now, how
much the possession of that letter might mean to any one. Good God! to 'any one.' Could it have been so to Harold himself . . . that he thought to use it as an engine, to force her to meet his
wishes--as Leonard had already tried to do! The mistrust, founded on her
fear, was not dead yet . . . No! no! no! Her whole being resented such a
monstrous proposition! Besides, there was proof. Thank God! there was
proof. A blackmailer would have stayed close to her, and would have kept
the letter; Harold did neither. Her recognition of the truth was shown
in her act, when, stretching out her arms in the darkness, she whispered
pleadingly:

'Forgive me, Harold!' And Harold, far away where the setting sun was lying red on the rim of
the western sea, could not hear her. But perhaps God did. As, then, Harold's motive was not of the basest, it must have been of the
noblest. What would be a man's noblest motive under such circumstances? Surely self-sacrifice! And yet there could be no doubt as to Harold's earnestness when he had
told her that he loved her . . . Here Stephen covered her face in one moment of rapture. But the gloom
that followed was darker than the night. She did not pursue the thought. That would come later when she should understand. And yet, so little do we poor mortals know the verities of things, so
blind are we to things thrust before our eyes, that she understood more
in that moment of ecstasy than in all the reasoning that preceded and
followed it. But the reasoning went on:

If he really loved, and told her so, wherein was the self-sacrifice? She
had reproached him with coming to her with his suit hotfoot upon his
knowledge of her shameful proffer of herself to another man; of her
refusal by him. Could he have been so blind as not to have seen, as she
did, the shameful aspect of his impulsive act? Surely, if he had
thought, he must have seen! . . . And he must have thought; there had
been time for it. It was at dinner that he had seen Leonard; it was
after breakfast when he had seen her . . . And if he had seen then . . . In an instant it all burst upon her; the whole splendid truth. He had
held back the expression of his long love for her, waiting for the time
when her maturity might enable her to understand truly and judge wisely;
waiting till her grief for the loss of her father had become a story of
the past; waiting for God knows what a man's mind sees of obstacles when
he loves. But he had spoken it out when it was to her benefit. What,
then, had been his idea of her benefit? Was it that he wished to meet
the desire that she had manifested to have some man to--to love? . . . The way she covered her face with her hands whilst she groaned aloud made
her answer to her own query a perfect negative. Was it, then, to save her from the evil of marrying Leonard in case he
should repent of his harshness, and later on yield himself to her wooing? The fierce movement of her whole body, which almost threw the clothes
from her bed, as the shameful recollection rolled over her, marked the
measure of her self-disdain. One other alternative there was; but it seemed so remote, so far-fetched,
so noble, so unlike what a woman would do, that she could only regard it
in a shamefaced way. She put the matter to herself questioningly, and
with a meekness which had its roots deeper than she knew. And here out
of the depths of her humility came a noble thought. A noble thought,
which was a noble truth. Through the darkness of the night, through the
inky gloom of her own soul came with that thought a ray of truth which,
whilst it showed her her own shrivelled unworthiness, made the man whom
she had dishonoured with insults worse than death stand out in noble
relief. In that instant she guessed at, and realised, Harold's unselfish
nobility of purpose, the supreme effort of his constant love. Knowing
the humiliation she must have suffered at Leonard's hands, he had so
placed himself that even her rejection of him might be some solace to her
wounded spirit, her pride. Here at last was truth! She knew it in the very marrow of her bones. This time she did not move. She thought and thought of that noble
gentleman who had used for her sake even that pent-up passion which, for
her sake also, he had suppressed so long. In that light, which restored in her eyes and justified so fully the man
whom she had always trusted, her own shame and wrongdoing, and the perils
which surrounded her, were for the time forgotten. And its glory seemed to rest upon her whilst she slept. CHAPTER XX--CONFIDENCES


Miss Rowly had received a bulky letter by the morning's post. She had
not opened it, but had allowed it to rest beside her plate all breakfast-
time. Then she had taken it away with her to her own sitting-room. Stephen did not appear to take any notice of it. She knew quite well
that it was from some one in London whom her aunt had asked to pay
Leonard's bills. She also knew that the old lady had some purpose in her
reticence, so she waited. She was learning to be patient in these days. Miss Rowly did say anything about it that day, or the next, or the next. The third-morning, she received another letter which she had read in an
enlightening manner. She began its perusal with set brow frowning, then
she nodded her head and smiled.