His hand closed upon hers with rescuing force.
'I am carrying a letter,' Emily continued, 'that I was going to post before I went in. I will give it you now, and I am glad of the opportunity; it seems safer. I have written what I feel I could never say to you. Read it and destroy it, and never speak of what it contains.'
She gave him the letter, and then he walked with her homewards.
On the morrow, shortly after breakfast, he was sitting in his study, when a knock came at the door. He bade enter, and it was Beatrice. She came towards him, gave her hand mechanically, and said—
'Can you spare me a few minutes?'
He placed a chair for her. Her eyes had not closed since they last looked at him; he saw it, though the expression of her features was not weariness.
'There is one thing, Wilfrid, that I think I have a right to ask you. Will you tell me why she left you, years ago?'
Her tone was that of one continuing a conversation. There might have been no break between yesterday and to-day. We cannot always gather from the voice what struggle has preceded utterance.
Wilfrid turned away. On the table lay that letter of Emily's; he had read it many times, and was reading it when the knock disturbed him. With a sudden movement, he took up the sheet of paper and held it to Beatrice.
'It is there—the reason. I myself have only known it a few hours. Read that. I have no right to show it you—and no right to refuse.'