"Yes—she was one. But I suppose the chief one was the one. Anything to get rid of what brought the story back. He has never spoken of it again to me."
"Not since that one time?"
"Yes—long ago now! When was it?—over a twelvemonth. He described how it all came back to him." The Rector extemporized a sympathetic shudder, and made an excruciated noise; both very expressive. "You see, in his oblivion, he was simply hungering for the coming of this wife he had quarrelled with, and remembering her as in her early days...."
"Oh, it was hideous! Just fancy the memory of Judith Arkroyd coming back to him!"
"Yes—as he told me himself—with the arms of his wife round him whom he had been longing for! He told me all about it—how he had said to her: 'What for, Polly Anne? What am I to forgive you for?' Because, don't you see, sweetheart?..."
"Oh yes—I see."
"... Don't you see, she was crying over him, and all contrition for her own share of the business. She said to him—so he told me—'It was all my fault, love. If only I had never posted that letter!' He said, 'What letter?' and she said, 'The letter with the postscript.' And then all on a sudden he remembered everything, from the beginning. He could hardly bear to speak of it.... I've told you all this."
"Little bits come out that you haven't told. Go on!"
"He said he was afraid he should go mad, and had an idea that clinging to his wife would save him. 'I was simply,' said he, 'on fire with shame and intense terror of what I might remember next. I felt defenceless against what might be sprung on me out of the past.'"
"Did he say anything about Judith?"