"You mean Mrs. Everett, sir. Yes, Mrs. Everett is a dreadful woman. She frightens me. She seems to read right through my heart."
The Squire did not reply. He began to pace up and down in the part of the room which was lying in shadow. Hetty watched him with eyes which seemed to devour him—his upright figure was slightly bent, his bowed head had lost its look of youth and alertness. He found that conscience could be troublesome to the point of agony. If it spoke like this often and for long could he endure the frightful strain? There was a way in which he could silence it. There was a path of thorns which his feet might tread. Could they take it? That path would lead to the complete martyrdom, the absolute ruin of his own life. But life, after all, was short, and there was a beyond. Margaret—what would Margaret feel? How would she bear the awful shock? He knew then, a flash of thought convinced him, that he must never tell Margaret the truth if he wished to keep this ghastly thing to himself, for Margaret would rather go through the martyrdom which it all meant, and set his conscience and her own free.
Awdrey looked again at Hetty. She was ghastly pale, her eyes were almost wild with fear—she seemed to be reading some of his thoughts. All of a sudden her outward calm gave way, she left her seat and fell on her knees—her voice rose in sobs.
"I know what you're thinking of," she cried. "You think you'll tell—you think you'll save him and save her, but for God's sake——"
"Do not say that," interrupted Awdrey.
"Then for the devil's sake—for any sake, for my sake, for your own, for Mrs. Awdrey's, don't do it, Squire, don't do it."
"Don't do——" began Awdrey. "What did you think I was going to do?"
"Oh, you frightened me so awfully when you looked like that—I thought you were making up your mind. Squire, don't tell what you know—don't tell what I've done. I'll be locked up and you'll be locked up, and Mrs. Awdrey's heart will be broke, and we'll all be disgraced forever, and, Squire, maybe they'll hang you. Think of one of the family coming to that. Oh, sir, you've no right to tell now. You'll have to think of me now, if you'll think of nothing else. I've kept your secret for close on six years, and if they knew what I had done they would lock me up, and I couldn't stand it. You daren't confess now—for my sake, sir."
"Get up, Mrs. Vincent," said Awdrey. "I can't talk over matters with you while you kneel to me. You've done a good deal for me, and I'm bound to consider your position. Now, I'm going to tell you something which perhaps you will scarcely understand. I remembered the act of which I was guilty several months ago, but until last night my conscience did not trouble me about it. It is now speaking to me, and speaking loudly. It is impossible for me to tell you at present whether I shall have strength of mind to follow it and do the right—yes, the right, the only right thing to do, or to reject its counsels and lead a life of deceit and hypocrisy. Both paths will be difficult to follow, but one leads to life, the highest life, and the other to death, the lowest death. It is quite possible that I may choose the lowest course. If I do, you, Hetty Vincent, will know the truth about me. To the outside world I shall appear to be a good man, for whatever my sufferings, I shall endeavor to help my people, and to set them an outward example of morality. I shall apparently live for them, and will think no trouble too great to promote their best interests. Only you, Hetty, will know me for what I am—a liar—a man who has committed murder, and then concealed his crime—a hypocrite. You will know that much as I am thought of in the county here among my own people, I am allowing an innocent man to wear out his life in penal servitude because I have not the courage to confess my deed. You will also know that I am breaking the heart of this man's mother."
"The knowledge won't matter to me, Squire. I'd rather you were happy and all the rest of the world miserable. I'd far, far rather."