“No, you are not wrong, Mr. Bathurst. You are right, of course—but now that I’ve decided to tell it to you, and have arrived at the moment of the telling—I don’t know whether I should or whether it’s of the slightest importance—except to me—and—one other.”
She stopped and Anthony waited for her to continue.
It was plain to me, interested auditor that I was, that Mary was waiting for some sign of encouragement or approbation from Anthony—but it did not come. She glanced at him, but his eyes were inscrutable.
“You don’t help me much,” she said, rather deliciously. “You could—you know!”
“I would much prefer you to tell your story entirely in your own way. It is impossible for me, at this stage of the conversation, to judge whether it will possess any significance—please proceed.”
She looked rather aggrieved at this, and I wondered what was coming next.
“I haven’t told my father. I haven’t told my mother—the only person that knows is my sister, Helen—Mrs. Arkwright, you know—I told her soon after it happened. I have had a talk with her over it, Mr. Bathurst, and she approves of my telling you.” She clasped her hands. “‘Nil nisi bonum de mortuis est,’ they say, don’t they, and although I’m not going to say anything at all bad—I feel that I’m betraying a confidence—exposing to the world something that he would have regarded as intimate and private—that’s why I hesitated and seemed to be in a difficulty just now.” She looked at Anthony earnestly, as though probing his mind for his opinion on the matter.
“I appreciate your diffidence, Miss Considine, and I think I can gauge exactly what your feelings are.”
She smiled with gratification. “Do you know, that’s very nice of you ... that will make it easier for me to know that. What I want to tell you is this—Gerald Prescott was in love with me and had asked me to be his wife.”
I gasped! Consummate effrontery I called it, even though the man was lying dead now.