He put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands, and, as in some nightmare, the whole of his life passed in review before him. It had opened with such fair prospects; and behold, this was the end! He had hoped to win wealth, women’s smiles, golden opinions from his fellows; and the end, was a choice of two alternatives:—to remain, and, if he escaped the gallows, be sentenced to transportation, most probably for life; or to escape, and lead a fugitive existence, under an assumed name, for the rest of his days.
He thought of the sacrifices his father had made for him; he thought of the castles his mother had built with her son’s fame, or her son’s talent, or her son’s greatness for the foundation-stone of each; he thought of how proud he had felt of his own gifts; of how certain he had been of achieving success; and now he let his hands drop and looked at Miss Moffat with a face so white, so haggard, so aged, so hopeless, that Grace was forced to turn her eyes away. She could not bear to look upon a wreck so sudden and so complete.
“You ought not to be staying here,” he said, in a choking voice and with an evident effort. “You came by the shore, I suppose? You would not mind, perhaps, if I asked leave to walk part of the way back with you. I mean, you would not feel—afraid.”
“Afraid!” she only spoke that one word, but it was enough. He could feel there were tears and sorrow, and compassion and regret in her tone; tears, sorrow, compassion, and regret for him.
“If you will walk slowly along the beach I will follow you,” he said. “I—I want to tell you how it all happened.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence, drew the veil over her face once more, and passed out silently into the night.
She had not walked more than halfway to Ballylough Head before he was at her side.
Without waiting for him to speak, she said,—
“I do not know, Mr. Hanlon, whether you have a sister.”
Under the circumstances it seemed to him a curious question, but he answered,—