“I must tell you everything,” she cried energetically. “It isn’t fair to sit here, to stay in your house without telling you everything.”
She told it all without another moment of hesitation: told every little thing. She didn’t care how her story would be received. She relentlessly dissected all her emotions—however unworthy. She detailed all her experiences—however unsavory. It was a relief to be absolutely frank at last, to have no concealment whatever from at least one person. It was a very long story; she touched it up almost lovingly. The night wore away. She drained herself of all the bitterness, all the delight and shame and misery of three years.
The fire died out. Hushed sounds in the streets beyond the smugly drawn curtains, a cold, dull light breaking through a chink and marking the wall, were suggestive. Barbara Clutton, who had listened without one word of comment, started to her feet and dragged back the curtains.
It was broad daylight in the streets outside. She put her arm around Pamela’s shoulders, with a gesture much more eloquently tender and sympathetic than a torrent of words would have been, and drew her to the window.
“Did you ever see such an exquisite flush of pink?” she said, pointing to the sky. “I’ll open the window. There! Such air on one’s cheeks, in one’s thick eyes. We ought to go for a walk while the world is empty.”
“I wonder what it is like at this moment at Folly Corner, in my garden,” Pamela said abstractedly.
“Ah! Folly Corner. What a garden, what a dim old house, packed with ghosts, guilt, dead dreams, and delights! What a collection of furniture; I’d like Tim to see it. And you put all that behind you for a tinsel thing. My poor Pamela! But then you are a woman. Let us talk over your plans. You’ve got to finish your life—that is a piece of work we are not allowed to throw aside. Let us make plans.”
“I haven’t any—only desires,” Pamela returned in a shamefaced way.
“Desires! Are you thinking of Jethro? The dawn, the quiet has brought it all back—Folly Corner.”
“That is past—impossible. I was thinking of Edred. I had better go back. You see, he didn’t mean to shame me. He didn’t know that she was alive all the time. He is a victim of circumstances. He needs pity. I’ll go back. I’ll say nothing about it. That will be the best. You don’t know how fond I am of him! It is terrible; it frightens me sometimes. Nothing kills it—not even last night; not even the bruises on my body. I’ll go back. You must forget to-night. I’m not a fit person for you—or any nice woman—to know.”