‘Mrs. Dulcimer! How could Mrs. Dulcimer cause you to do wrong?’
‘She put a foolish idea into my head, and it took root there, and poisoned my life. She told me that—I hate myself when I think how easily I was duped—that you cared for me.’
‘Hush!’ said Cyril, gently. ‘Why talk of that now? It was foolish of Mrs. Dulcimer. She has made a good many mistakes of that kind—out of kindness. But the error did not last long. I told her frankly that my heart had been given elsewhere—that you could never be more to me than a friend whose amiability and sweetness I admired. Why recall that? You have been happily married to a good man. He deserves all your pity in this dark hour—your affectionate consideration. And you have to think of God. You may have offended Him in many things. Give the short hours He has left you to prayer and meditation.’
‘I must recall that wretched mistake,’ said Bella, feverishly. ‘I tell you it was that which made me wicked. I have been very wicked. I have injured my kindest friend.’
‘What friend?’ asked Cyril, very pale.
‘Beatrix Harefield!’
‘You have injured her?’
‘Yes. Do you see a jewel-case on the dressing-table over there—a large morocco case? Take my keys from under my pillow. I have no power to move myself—but I made the doctor put my keys under my pillow. It is the smallest key of all,’ she went on, when Cyril obeyed her. ‘Now open the jewel-case, and press the little gilt knob at the right side of the tray. That opens a drawer, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, the drawer has come out. There is a letter in it,’ said Cyril.
‘Take that letter. I found it on the table in Mr. Harefield’s library the morning after his death. It is addressed to his daughter.’