"There was—no time," she said. "Every day he said it. He knew—he knew. Before he was killed he wanted something that was his own. It was our secret. I wanted to keep it his secret till I died."
"Where," he spoke low and tensely, "were you married?"
"I do not know. It was a little house in a poor crowded street. Donal took me. Suddenly we were frightened because we thought he was to go away in three days. A young chaplain who was going away too was his friend. He had just been married himself. He did it because he was sorry for us. There was no time. His wife lent me a ring. They were young too and they were sorry."
"What was the man's name?"
"I can't remember. I was trembling all the time. I knew nothing. That was like a dream too. It was all a dream."
"You do not remember?" he persisted. "You were married—and have no proof."
"We came away so quickly. Donal held me in his arm in the cab because I trembled. Donal knew. Donal knew everything."
He was a man who had lived through tragedy but that had been long ago. Since then he had only known the things of the world. He had seen struggles and tricks and paltry craftiness. He had known of women caught in traps of folly and passion and weakness and had learned how terror taught them to lie and shift and even show abnormal cleverness. Above all he knew exactly what the world would say if a poor wretch of a girl told a story like this of a youngster like Donal—when he was no longer on earth to refute it.
And yet if these wild things were true, here in a wintry wood she sat a desolate and undefended thing—with but one thought. And in that which was most remote in his being he was conscious that he was for the moment relieved because even worldly wisdom was not strong enough to overcome his desire to believe in a certain thing which was—that the boy would have played fair even when his brain whirled and all his fierce youth beset him.