Her voice was gentle, and had not a trace of bitterness.
The Vicar continued for a moment his perambulation of the room.
Then he stopped abruptly and raised his head.
“Thank you,” he said in a husky tone. “I owe you a debt I can never repay. I——” he hesitated painfully. “I wish to God——” he broke out again, and again paused. She looked at him steadily.
All the pompous self-importance had died out of his face; all the arrogance of the priest who denounces the sinner. His was the very human face of a man still gasping with relief from deadly fear, still unable to believe that the threatened danger is over. And with this expression of scarcely assured safety there was mingled real sorrow, a look of real affection for the woman to whom he owed his escape from a crushing blow.
“You spoke of an explanation,” said Anne in a low voice. “A moment ago I should have asked you to leave me, because of the manner in which you spoke of it.
“Now I have changed my mind, and I think I should like to give you an explanation—my explanation.”
She was still standing, still looking at him steadily.
“You were kind enough to say that people here had loved and trusted me. I am glad if that is the case—very glad.” She waited a moment.
“If as you say they have been good enough to give me their love and confidence, it is because I have understood them; because they have never been afraid to tell me their inmost thoughts. Well, you will not believe me, perhaps,—that power of understanding would never have been mine but for the ‘mode of life’ to which you have alluded.