She presently reached Grandcourt, entered the grounds by a side entrance and pursued her way through the darkness. The sky overhead was cloudy, neither moon nor stars were visible. Faltering and falling she pressed forward, and by and by reached the neighborhood of the office. She saw a light burning dimly behind the closed blinds—her heart beat with a sense of thankfulness—she staggered up to the door, brushing her dress against the door as she did so—she put up her hand and knocked feebly. The next instant the door was opened to her—a man, a total stranger, confronted her, but behind him she saw Awdrey. She tottered into the room.
The comparative light and warmth within, after the darkness and chilly damp of the spring evening, made her head reel, and her eyes at first could take in no object distinctly. She was conscious of uttering excited words, then she heard the door shut behind her. She looked round—she was alone with the Squire. She staggered up to him, and fell on her knees.
"You must save me as I saved you long ago," she panted.
"What is it? Get up. What do you mean?" said Awdrey.
"I mean, Squire—oh! I mean I wanted to come to you to-day, but Vincent,"—her voice faltered—"Vincent were mad wi' jealousy. He thought that I ought not to see you, Squire; he had got summat in his brain, and it made him mad. He thought that, perhaps, long ago, Squire, I loved you—long ago. I'm not afeared to say anything to-night, the truth will out to-night—I loved you long ago, I love you still; yes, yes, with all my heart, with all my heart. You never cared nothin' for me, I know that well. You never did me a wrong in thought or in deed, I know that well also; but to me you were as a god, and I loved you, I love you still, and Vincent, my husband, he must have seen it in my face; but you did me no wrong—never, in word or in deed—only loved you—and I love you still."
"You must be mad, girl," said Awdrey. "Why have you come here to tell me that? Get up at once; your words and your actions distress me much. Get up, Hetty; try to compose yourself."
"What I have come to say had best be said kneeling," replied Hetty; "it eases the awful pain in my side to kneel. Let me be, Squire; let me kneel up against your father's desk. Ah! that's better. It is my heart—I think it's broke; anyhow, it beats awful, and the pain is awful."
"If you have come for any other reason than to say the words you have just said, say them and go," replied Awdrey.
Hetty glanced up at him. His face was hard, she thought it looked cruel, she shivered from head to foot. Was it for this man she had sacrificed her life? Then the awful significance of her errand came over her, and she proceeded to speak.
"Vincent saw the truth in my face," she continued. "Anyhow, he was mad wi' jealousy, and he said that I worn't to come and see yer. He heard me speak to yer last night, he heard me say it's a matter o' life and death and he wor mad. He said I worn't to come; but I wor mad too, mad to come, and I thought I'd get over him by guile. I put summat in his stout, and he drank it—summat, I don't know the name, but I had took it myself and it always made me a sight better, and I gave it to 'im in his stout and he drank it, and then he slept. He lay down on the settle in the kitchen, and he went off into a dead sleep. When he slept real sound I stole away and I come to you. I saw you this evening and you spoke to me and I spoke to you, and I begged of you to keep our secret, and I thought perhaps you would, and I come away feelin' better. I went back 'ome, and the place were quiet, and I got into the kitchen. Vincent was lying on the settle sound asleep. I thought nought o' his sleepin', only to be glad, for I knew he'd never have missed me. I made his supper for him, and built up the fire, and I lit the lamps in the house, and I took off my outdoor things. The dog howled, but I didn't take no notice. Presently I went up to Vincent, and I shook 'im—I shook 'im, 'ard, but he didn't wake. I took his hand in mine, it wor cold as ice; I listened for his breath, there wor none. Squire," said Hetty, rising now to her feet, "my man wor dead; Squire, I have killed 'im, just the same as you killed the man on Salisbury Plain six years ago. My husband is dead, and I have killed him. Squire, you must save me as I saved you."