But a worse doubt than any was gaining ground: the same doubt that had crossed Sister Mildred the night of the disappearance. Had Jane committed any rash act? In short, to speak out boldly, for it is what Greylands did, people thought that Jane must have flung herself into the sea. The way to the Limpet rocks--once old Dame Dance's cottage was passed--led to nowhere but the rocks: and nobody in their senses would seek them at night if they wanted to come away alive. Clearly there was but one inference to be drawn: Jane was under the water.
Of course, it was entirely inconsistent with Greylands' neighbourly outspokenness that this dismal conviction should long be concealed from Miss Hallet. Perhaps it was considered a matter of conscience to make it known to her. Mrs. Pike at the shop was the first to run up, and undertake the communication.
Miss Hallet received it in cold silence: for all the world as if she had been a stock or a stone, as Mrs. Pike related afterwards: and for a day or two she held on in her course of high-mightiness. But it could not last. She had human feelings, as well as other people: it might have been that they were all the keener from her outward shell of impassive coldness; and they made themselves heard in spite of her injured pride. The news shocked her; the more she tried to drive it from her mind, the more persistently it came back to take up its abode there: and at length a whole flood-tide of remorse and repentance set in: for she asked herself whether she--she--had helped to drive Jane to her dreadful fate. It is one thing to browbeat our friends to within an inch of their lives: but quite another thing to shut them into their coffins.
On the second evening, when twilight was sufficiently dim to enfold her within its shade, Miss Hallet went down to seek an interview with Sister Mildred at the Nunnery; and was admitted to her. Mary Ursula Castlemaine was also in the room, writing at a table apart: but she did not interfere in any way, or take part in the conversation.
"I have come to know the truth of this," gasped Miss Hallet, whose every effort to suppress her agitation and to appear cold as usual, served to impede her breath. "At least, madam, so far as you can tell it me."
"But, my dear, good woman, I can't tell you anything," briskly returned Sister Mildred, speaking with her trumpet to her ear. "We don't know what to think ourselves. I wish we did."
They were sitting side by side on the well-worn horsehair sofa, which was drawn close to the fire. Mary was in the further corner behind them, a shade on the candle by which she wrote. Miss Hallet untied the strings of her bonnet, as if in need of air.
"Jane cannot have put an end to her life!" spoke Miss Hallet, her trembling lips betokening that she felt less assured of the fact than the words implied. "She was too religious a girl for anything so desperately wicked; too well-principled."
"That is what I tell myself ten times a day," returned Sister Mildred. "Or try to."
"Try to!" echoed Miss Hallet.