‘Yes, you shall hear me, you shall know the truth—all the mad foolish truth. When your father died, and people began to whisper, and to shrug their shoulders, and insinuate vile slanders against you, the devil got into my mind, as into the minds of those village gossips, and a horrible fear took hold of me. I thought it was just possible—just within the compass of human error—that, maddened by your father’s tyranny and injustice, you had blackened your soul with murder—your fair young soul, which till that hour I had deemed stainless. I saw you at the inquest, and I thought, God help me, that I could read guilt in your face and manner. I struggled against the conviction—I tried to believe you innocent, and all the world mistaken—but the more I fought against it the stronger that conviction grew. In my darkest hours I believed you guilty—at my best moments I was doubtful. So I swore I would pluck your image out of my heart. How could I cherish you, sin incarnate, and be faithful to my God? What was my individual happiness upon this little spot of earth when weighed against duty and honour? And so I left you, love—went away to forget you—worked as few men have worked—strove as few have striven—prayed without ceasing—and remembered you all the more vividly for the distance that severed us, and loved you all the more dearly because I had lost you. And now,’ he cried, straining her against his heart in one desperate embrace, pressing his lips to hers in one impassioned kiss, ‘now, marry Kenrick Culverhouse if you dare, and let the memory of me be your curse, as it is mine to remember you.’
After that kiss he loosed his hold and let her go. She tottered a few paces from the railing that had supported her, and then her feet seemed to get entangled in the long grass of a neglected grave, and she fell headlong at the foot of a gloomy old yew which stretched its crooked branches across her as she lay, like the scraggy arms of weird women—pointing to a foredoomed victim of Fate.
Cyril ran back to the vestry to get some water, and there happily encountered Mrs. Pomfret, the pew-opener, who had come to dust and garnish the church for to-morrow’s ceremony.
‘Miss Harefield has fainted,’ he cried. ‘Bring some water, and see what you can do for her, while I go and get a fly.’
He went into the street, intending to order a carriage at the inn, but luckily found the flyman who had brought him from Great Yafford, refreshing his horse with a nosebag and himself with a pint of ale before a small beer-shop over against the churchyard. He told this man to bring his fly close up to the gate for a lady.
‘I must get back to the town directly,’ said the man.
‘I only want you to drive half a mile or so, and I’ll give you a crown for the job.’
‘Very well, sir, I’ll do it.’
Cyril went back to the spot where he had left Beatrix. She was seated upon a low stone tomb, supported by Mrs. Pomfret, and looking dazed and white.
‘I have got a fly to drive her home,’ he said to the pew-opener. ‘Bring her as soon as you can. It is getting cold here.’