‘Anne,’ cried the Rector, taking both her hands in his—‘Anne, my dear child! I have loved you as if you had been my own all your life.’
She thanked him with her eyes, in which there was the ghost of a melancholy smile, but did not speak.
‘And I can’t bear to see you slighted, my dear. You are slighted, Anne, you whom we all think too good for a king. It has been growing more and more intolerable to me as the months have gone by. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it any longer. I have come to say to yourself that it is not possible, that it must not go on, that it cannot be.’
Anne gave his hands which held hers a quick pressure. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘dear Mr. Ashley, for coming to me. If you had gone to anyone else I could not have borne it: but say whatever you will to me.’
Then he got up, his excitement growing. ‘Anne, this man stands aloof. Possessing your love, my dear, and your promise, he has—not claimed either one or the other. He has let you go abroad, he has let you come home, he is letting you leave London without coming to any decision or taking the place he ought to take by your side. Anne, hear me out; you have a difficult position, my dear; you have a great deal to do; it would be an advantage to you to have someone to act for you, to stand by you, to help you.’
‘So far as that goes,’ she said with a pained smile—‘no: I don’t think there is very much need of that.’
‘Listen to me, my dear. Rose has her mother; she does not want your personal care, so that is no excuse; and all that you have to do makes it more expedient that you should have help and support. None of us but would give you that help and support, oh! so gladly, Anne! But there is one whom you have chosen, by means of whom it is that you are in this position—and he holds back. He does not rush to your side imprudently, impatiently, as he ought. What sort of a man is it that thinks of prudence in such circumstances? He lets you stand alone and work alone: and he is letting you go away, leave the place where he is, without settling your future, without coming to any conclusion—without even a time indicated. Oh, I have no patience with it—I cannot away with it!’ said the Rector, throwing up his arms, ‘it is more than I can put up with. And that you should be subjected to this, Anne!’
Perhaps she had never been subjected to so hard an ordeal as now. She sat with her hands tightly clasped on the table, her lips painfully smiling, a dark dew of pain in her eyes—hearing her own humiliation, her downfall from the heights of worship and service where she had been placed all her life by those who loved her, recounted like a well-known history. She thought it had been all secret to herself, that nobody had known of the wondering discoveries, the bitter findings out, the confusion of all her ideas, as one thing after another became clear to her. It was not all clear to her yet; she had found out some things, but not all. And that all should be clear as daylight to others, to the friends whom she had hoped knew nothing about it! this knowledge transfixed Anne like a sword. Fiery arrows had struck into her before, winged and blazing, but now it was all one great burning scorching wound. She held her hands clasped tight to keep herself still. She would not writhe at least upon the sword that was through her, she said to herself, and upon her mouth there was the little contortion of a smile. Was it to try and make it credible that she did not believe what he was saying, or that she did not feel it, that she kept that smile?—or had it got frozen upon her lips so that the ghost could not pass away?
When he stopped at last, half frightened by his own vehemence, and alarmed at her calm, Anne was some time without making any reply. At last she said, speaking with some difficulty, her lips being dry: ‘Mr. Ashley, some of what you say is true.’
‘Some—oh, my dear, my dear, it is all true—don’t lay that flattering unction to your soul. Once you have looked at it calmly, dispassionately——’