“No,” she agreed, “I realize it. And I cannot stay, much longer, in Park Street. I must go back to New York, until you send for me, dear. And there are things I must do. Do you know, even though I antagonize him so—my father, I mean—even though he suspects and bitterly resents any interest in you, my affection for you, and that I have lingered because of you, I believe, in his way, he has liked to have me here.”
“I can understand it,” Hodder said.
“It's because you are bigger than I, although he has quarrelled with you so bitterly. I don't know what definite wrongs he has done to other persons. I don't wish to know. I don't ask you to tell me what passed between you that night. Once you said that you had an affection for him—that he was lonely. He is lonely. In these last weeks, in spite of his anger, I can see that he suffers terribly. It is a tragedy, because he will never give in.”
“It is a tragedy.” Hodder's tone was agitated.
“I wonder if he realizes a little” she began, and paused. “Now that Preston has come home—”
“Your brother?” Hodder exclaimed.
“Yes. I forgot to tell you. I don't know why he came,” she faltered. “I suppose he has got into some new trouble. He seems changed. I can't describe it now, but I will tell you about it.... It's the first time we've all three been together since my mother died, for Preston wasn't back from college when I went to Paris to study....”
They stood together on the pavement before the massive house, fraught with so many and varied associations for Hodder. And as he looked up at it, his eye involuntarily rested upon the windows of the boy's room where Eldon Parr had made his confession. Alison startled him by pronouncing his name, which came with such unaccustomed sweetness from her lips. “You will write me to-morrow,” she said, “after you have seen the bishop?”
“Yes, at once. You mustn't let it worry you.”
“I feel as if I had cast off that kind of worry forever. It is only—the other worries from which we do not escape, from which we do not wish to escape.”