With the same craving for
certainty with which she convinced herself that Leonard understood her
overtures, and with the same dogged courage with which she pressed the
matter on him, she now went on to satisfy her mind. 'What did you do yesterday?' 'I was at Norcester all day. I went early. By the way, here is the
ribbon you wanted; I think it's exactly the same as the pattern.' As he
spoke he took a tissue-piper parcel from his pocket and handed it to her. 'Thanks!' she said. 'Did you meet any friends there?' 'Not many.' He answered guardedly; he had a secret to keep. 'Where did you dine?' 'At the club!' He began to be uneasy at this questioning; but he did not
see any way to avoid answering without creating some suspicion. 'Did you see any one you knew at the club?' Her voice as she spoke was a
little harder, a little more strained. Harold noticed the change, rather
by instinct than reason. He felt that there was danger in it, and
paused. The pause seemed to suddenly create a new fury in the breast of
Stephen. She felt that Harold was playing with her. Harold! If she
could not trust him, where then was she to look for trust in the world? If he was not frank with her, what then meant his early coming; his
seeking her in the grove; his proposal of marriage, which seemed so
sudden and so inopportune? He must have seen Leonard, and by some means
have become acquainted with her secret of shame . . . His motive? Here her mind halted. She knew as well as if it had been trumpeted from
the skies that Harold knew all. But she must be certain . . . Certain! She was standing erect, her hands held down by her sides and clenched
together till the knuckles were white; all her body strung high--like an
over-pitched violin. Now she raised her right hand and flung it downward
with a passionate jerk. 'Answer me!' she cried imperiously. 'Answer me! Why are you playing
with me? Did you see Leonard Everard last night? Answer me, I say. Harold An Wolf, you do not lie! Answer me!' As she spoke Harold grew cold. From the question he now knew that
Stephen had guessed his secret. The fat was in the fire with a
vengeance. He did not know what to do, and still remained silent. She
did not give him time to think, but spoke again, this time more coldly. The white terror had replaced the red:

'Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold? To be silent
now is to wrong me! I have a right to know!' In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her
new pain, he said humbly:

'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do what is
best for you? Won't you trust me?' Her answer came harshly. A more
experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen
how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future
bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity
only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same. The Stephen whom
he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only. He knew the
nobility of her nature and must trust it to the end. When her silence
and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query in a low
voice:

'I did!' Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not
been pledged in any way to confidence. Leonard had forced the knowledge
on him; and though he would have preferred a million times over to be
silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen's next question came more
coldly still:

'Did he tell you of his meeting with me?' 'He did.' 'Did he tell you all?' It was torture to him to answer; but he was at
the stake and must bear it. 'I think so! If it was true.' 'What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; the
broad facts. We need not go into details . . . ' 'Oh, Stephen!' She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand. 'If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear the shame
of telling, you can at least bear that of listening. Remember that
knowing--knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard--you
could come here and propose marriage to me!' This she said with a cold,
cutting sarcasm which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened
knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned in spirit; he felt a weakness
which began at his heart to steal through him. It took all his manhood
to bear himself erect. He dreaded what was coming, as of old the once-
tortured victim dreaded the coming torment of the rack. CHAPTER XV--THE END OF THE MEETING


Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:

'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?' Despite herself, as
she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face. It was not a flush; it was
not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her
in a few seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He
could not speak; he lowered his head silently. Her eyes glittered more
coldly. The madness that every human being may have once was upon her. Such a madness is destructive, and here was something more vulnerable
than herself. 'Did he tell you how I pressed him?' There was no red tide this time,
nor ever again whilst the interview lasted. To bow in affirmation was
insufficient; with an effort he answered:

'I understood so.' She answered with an icy sarcasm:

'You understood so! Oh, I don't doubt he embellished the record with
some of his own pleasantries. But you understood it; and that is
sufficient.' After a pause she went on:

'Did he tell you that he had refused me?' 'Yes!' Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was
no refusing. She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung his heart even
more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that! 'And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine
masculine witticisms. I understood myself that he was offended at my
asking him. I understood it quite well; he told me so!' Then with
feminine intuition she went on:

'I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the poor
little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that she had to
break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had made the women
of her house honoured for a thousand years! And you listened to him
whilst he spoke! Oh-h-h!' she quivered with her white-hot anger, as the
fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers. But her voice was cold
again as she went on:

'But who could help loving him? Girls always did. It was such a beastly
nuisance! You "understood" all that, I dare say; though perhaps he did
not put it in such plain words!' Then the scorn, which up to now had
been imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of
deathly chill was being played upon him. 'And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me--refused my
pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in the
early morning and ask me to be your wife.