‘Then poor Julia,’ Miss Crofton went on hurriedly, ‘finds that she has misunderstood her heart. Recently, ever since she met Captain Lestrange—of the Guards—’
‘The fourth?’ asked Merton.
Miss Crofton nodded. ‘She has felt more and more
certain that she had misread her heart. But on each occasion she has felt this—after meeting the—well, the next one.’
‘I see the awkwardness,’ murmured Merton.
‘And then Remorse has set in, with all her horrors. Julia has wept, oh! for nights, on my shoulder.’
‘Happy shoulder,’ murmured Merton.
‘And so, as she dare not shatter their ideals, and perhaps cause them to plunge into excesses, moral or doctrinal, this is what she has done. She has said to each, that what the Church, any Church, needs is martyrs, and that if they will go to benighted lands, where the crown of martyrdom may still be won, then, if they return safe in five years, then she—will think of naming a day. You will easily see the attractions of this plan for Julia, Mr. Merton. No ideals were shattered, the young men being unaware of the circumstances. They might forget her—’
‘Impossible,’ cried Merton.
‘They might forget her, or, perhaps they—’