I thought such things did not
take place; that men were more honourable, or more considerate, or more
merciful! Or at least I used to think so; till yesterday. No! till to-
day. Yesterday's doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the
penalty of them myself. I had come here to fight out by myself the
battle of my shame . . . ' Here Harold interrupted her. He could not bear to hear Stephen use such
a word in connection with herself. 'No! You must not say "shame." There is no shame to you, Stephen. There
can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!' In her secret heart
of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink
into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his
face and bearing. But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of
the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys not on what is basest
in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity
to wound him more deeply than before. 'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my
shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind
than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone. My
shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment. My punishment! Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will
be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread
abroad our shame!' How she harped on that word, though she knew that
every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her. 'And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and
illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself
on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness. You
come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I
would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble. No--I do you an injustice. "In trouble" was not what you said, but that
I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short frocks! And you came
to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had
refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a
man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront should come upon
me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in
gratitude for my father's kindness!' She was eyeing him keenly, with
eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy
of sun-painting. She wanted to wound; and she succeeded. But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to
them they answered. Though the pain of death was upon him he did not
flinch. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a
rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam, for his
face was as white as snow. She saw and understood; but in the madness
upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:

'You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected
woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn't wait for a man to
ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his
handkerchief to her; would hand over herself--and her fortune!' 'Oh, Stephen! How can you say such things, think such things?' The
protest broke from him with a groan. His pain seemed to inflame her
still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:

'Why did I ever see you at all? Why did my father treat you as a son;
that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could thus
insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!' She
almost choked with passion. There was now nothing in the whole world
that she could trust. In the pause he spoke:

'Stephen, I never meant you harm. Oh, don't speak such wild words. They
will come back to you with sorrow afterwards! I only meant to do you
good. I wanted . . . ' Her anger broke out afresh:

'There; you speak it yourself! You only wanted to do me good. I was so
bad that any kind of a husband . . . Oh, get out of my sight! I wish to
God I had never seen you! I hope to God I may never see you again! Go! Go! Go!' This was the end! To Harold's honest mind such words would have been
impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them. That Stephen--his
Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the world,
past, present, and future--should say such things to any one, that she
should think such things, was to him a deadly blow. But that she should
say them to him! . . . Utterance, even the utterance which speaks in the
inmost soul, failed him. He had in some way that he knew not
hurt--wounded--killed Stephen; for the finer part was gone from the
Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long. She wished him gone;
she wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him
again. Life for him was over and done! There could be no more happiness
in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . . He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away. Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till
finally it was lost in their massing. She was so filled with the tumult
of her passion that she looked, unmoved. Even the sense of his going did
not change her mood. She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her
movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement began to change
from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself. All at
once she stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a
moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool moss. * * * * *

Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream. Little
things and big were mixed up in his mind. He took note, as he went
towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual
way, for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or
rather unintentionally. Long afterwards he could shut his eyes and
recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from
Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester. And on many and many
such a time when he opened them again the eyelids were wet. He wanted to
get away quickly, silently, unobserved. With the instinct of habitual
thought his mind turned London-ward. He met but few persons, and those
only cottiers. He saluted them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop
to speak with any. He was about to take a single ticket to London when
it struck him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return. Then,
his mind being once more directed towards concealment of purpose, he sent
a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to
London on business. It was only when he was far on his journey that he
gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions. Before
he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that he would
be content with what it was, no matter how little.