‘Mademoiselle Fédore.’
She raised her head, standing stiffly erect, her whole form tense and rigid for a moment. I could not speak. What comfort could I offer? Her grief was too sacred for me to profane it with any chance words of sympathy. I could only admire, reverence,—aye, and worship—before this martyrdom of true love.
At last: ‘I believed it. Yes—I was sure from the first. But it is very cruel. I have not deserved that insult. Whom have I followed? What honours have I tried to reach? I have striven, dear Mr. Brownlow, not even to think of him. Ever since my father forbade me to see him, or hold any sort of intercourse with him, there was but one thing to do—to obey. And I have obeyed. God knows that I have. You believe me?’
She glanced up in my face with something of the old witch-smile. My eyes answered yes. I dared not trust myself to speak. She looked down again on to the smooth turf and soft, scrambling, peeping chickens.
‘Tell me—I only saw her once, and saw she was very handsome. But is she—is she worthy of him?’
‘Do not ask me,’ I said, weakly perhaps; but I was hard pressed, wellnigh desperate. ‘Judge for yourself of the nature of the woman who could write such a letter.’
‘No, if I begin to judge, if I begin to fancy, I should go—it is wrong, it is wicked of me—but I feel, at times, I should go mad.’
She was silent again, looking down. Then:
‘God forgive her—for this letter has undone the work of months. Ever since we left Yorkshire, and came here to Westrea, I have struggled for my father’s sake, for Aunt Ann’s—and for my own pride’s sake too—to put the thought of him out of my mind, and interest myself in books, in my father’s schemes, and in my own home duties. I believed I had conquered myself, conquered my—my love. But this letter brought back all the pain, and stirred up something violent and evil in me—something I have never felt before. It is degrading. I am jealous, dear Mr. Brownlow—jealous. Do you know what that means?’