“You don’t guess. You only suspect—and suspicion never decides a woman’s fate. I shall have to tell you.”
She seemed to pull herself together, giving a last fierce look of affection round the room and out of the window, at the flowers and the fripperies that she was so fond of. Then she said coldly—with the unerring cold, callousness of steel:
“Edred is not my brother. He was my lover in London. We were engaged to be married. He got into trouble—some business affair. The others were to blame. They got away and he had to pay the penalty. When I came here he was in prison. I decided never to see him again; not to let him know my address. He came to the back door with machines that day—that day, dear; oh, Jethro, I’m so sorry—when you gave me the check for my wedding things and asked me about the pet lamb. I can’t marry you; I can’t stay. He doesn’t love me—as you do. He’ll be unkind to me: he’s that sort of man. I’m a fool, a traitor—everything that is ignoble. Why don’t you strike me?” She threw up her face and looked at him mournfully—that wild, sharp face, which was just a mask for her racking brain.
“Why don’t you curse me? I have spoilt your life—but it might have been worse. If he came back, or sent a message saying he wanted me, I should have gone. Yes, your wife, Jethro, would have gone. I’ve been trying to cure myself. I saw his name, and it all came back. He was the first man—no one else before had said or looked love, or kissed me. I suppose that must be the reason. There can be no other—he is worthless. You are a god compared to him. But he was first. I can’t help it.” She shook her head hopelessly, the molten, heavy tears rolling slowly down her face.
“That isn’t all. You shall know the very worst. Then you won’t care so much. You’ll drive me away from Folly Corner—and forget. Marry some good, even-minded girl—some girl without the horrible strength that I have. I must tell you the rest. He did send a telegram. You were at the Flagon House. He said he was coming back to fetch me. I waited under the yew until past midnight. He never came. Until to-day, until I saw this”—she touched his name—“I thought—I hoped that he might be dead. He wouldn’t have any power over me then.
“You saw him kissing me in the waiting-room. Why didn’t you guess then—why did you stop short—just suspecting? Suspicion is no good—it is only a petty thing. If you had not driven us to the station I should have gone to London with him. That day I kept changing my mind. Do speak, Jethro. Don’t look at me in that queer way. You must be angry. Show it. Strike me. Call me all the disgraceful names you are surely thinking.”
He got up, giving himself a slow shake in the shaggy coat of homespun, which was of a very light color and looked something like hairy sacking.
“You must go to him,” he said simply, not a trace of anger on his face. “It’s natural—I wouldn’t stand up against Nature for the world. Nature mates us all—no good our meddling. Even with the cattle——”
“Never mind the cattle,” she broke in, her squeamishness asserting itself even now—his speech was apt to be blunt enough when he spoke of the simple facts which he had been accustomed to take as a matter of course all his life.
“You can’t help it,” he continued, with superb generosity. “I don’t blame you. He was first—you were meant for him. It isn’t your fault—or his. I am the fool, the meddler. You can’t mate through the newspaper. I ought to have known.”