“I know what he was, not from you but from others; from his mother, from your sister, and from Canon Wilton. I’m going to tell you something Wilton said to me about you and him after you had separated from him.”
Father Robertson stopped, and fidgeted for a moment with the papers lying in disorder on his table. He hated the task he had set himself to do. All the tenderness in him revolted against it. He knew what this woman whom he cared for very much had suffered; he divined what she was suffering now. And he was going to add to her accumulated misery by striking a tremendous blow at the most sacred thing, her pride of woman. Would she be his enemy after he had spoken? It was possible. Yet he must speak.
“He said to me—‘Leith has a great heart. When will his wife understand its greatness?’”
There was a long silence. Then, without changing her position or lifting her head, Rosamund said in a hard, level voice:
“Canon Wilton was right about my husband.”
“He loved you. That’s a great deal. But he loved you in a very beautiful way. And that’s much more.”
“Who told you—about the way he loved me?”
“Your sister, Beatrice.”
“Beattie! Yes, she knew—she understood.”
She bent her head a little lower, then added: