She stopped and passed her hand across her forehead. She took off her hat and made a movement with her arms as if thrusting away some invisible assailant. She felt she could not encounter even Mr. Quincunx in this obsessed condition. She had the sensation of being infected by some kind of odious leprosy.
She sat down in the hedge, heedless of the still clinging dew. Strange and desperate thoughts whirled through her brain. She longed to purge herself in some way, to bathe deep, deep,—body and soul,—in some cleansing stream.
But what about Gladys’ betrothed? What about the American? Vennie had scarcely spoken to Dangelis, hardly ever seen him, but she felt a wave of sympathy for the betrayed artist surge through her heart. It could not be allowed,—it could not,—that those two false intriguers should fool this innocent gentleman!
Struck by a sudden illumination as if from the unveiled future, she saw herself going straight to Dangelis and revealing the whole story. He should at least be made aware of the real nature of the girl he was marrying!
Having resolved upon this bold step, Vennie recovered something of her natural mood. Where was Mr. Dangelis at this moment? She must find that out,—perhaps Mr. Quincunx would know. She must make a struggle to waylay the artist, to get an interview with him alone.
She rose to her feet, and holding her hat in her hand, advanced resolutely up the lane. She felt happier now, relieved, in a measure, of that odious sense of confederacy with gross sin which had weighed her down. But there still beat vaguely in her brain a passionate longing for purification. If only she could escape, even for a few hours, from this lust-burdened spot! If only she could cool her forehead in the sea!
As she approached Mr. Quincunx’s cottage she experienced a calm and restorative reaction from her distress of mind. She felt no longer alone in the world. Having resolved on a drastic stroke on behalf of clear issues, she was strangely conscious, as she had not been conscious for many months, of the presence, near her and with her, of the Redeemer of men.
It suddenly was borne in upon her that that other criminal abuse, which had so long oppressed her soul with a dead burden,—the affair of Lacrima and Goring,—was intimately associated with what she had discovered. It was more than likely that by exposing the one she could prevent the other.
Flushed with excitement at this thought she opened Mr. Quincunx’s gate and walked up his garden-path. To her amazement, she heard voices in the cottage and not only voices, but voices speaking in a language that vaguely reminded her of the little Catholic services in the chapel at Yeoborough.
Mr. Quincunx himself answered her knock and opened the door. He was strangely agitated. The hand which he extended to her shook as it touched her fingers.