He remembered the inscription: "To Sydney Westerfield, with Catherine Linley's love." His head sank on his breast; he understood her at last. "You despise me," he said, "and I deserve it."
"No; I despise myself. I have lived among vile people; and I am vile like them."
She moved a few steps away with a heavy sigh. "Kitty!" she said to herself. "Poor little Kitty!"
He followed her. "Why are you thinking of the child," he asked, "at such a time as this?"
She replied without returning or looking round; distrust of herself had inspired her with terror of Linley, from the time when the bracelet had dropped on the grass.
"I can make but one atonement," she said. "We must see each other no more. I must say good-by to Kitty--I must go. Help me to submit to my hard lot--I must go."
He set her no example of resignation; he shrank from the prospect that she presented to him.
"Where are you to go if you leave us?" he asked.
"Away from England! The further away from _you_ the better for both of us. Help me with your interest; have me sent to the new world in the west, with other emigrants. Give me something to look forward to that is not shame and despair. Let me do something that is innocent and good--I may find a trace of my poor lost brother. Oh, let me go! Let me go!"
Her resolution shamed him. He rose to her level, in spite of himself.
"I dare not tell you that you are wrong," he said. "I only ask you to wait a little till we are calmer, before you speak of the future again." He pointed to the summer-house. "Go in, my poor girl. Rest, and compose yourself, while I try to think."
He left her, and paced up and down the formal walks in the garden. Away from the maddening fascination of her presence, his mind grew clearer. He resisted the temptation to think of her tenderly; he set himself to consider what it would be well to do next.
The moonlight was seen no more. Misty and starless, the dark sky spread its majestic obscurity over the earth. Linley looked wearily toward the eastern heaven. The darkness daunted him; he saw in it the shadow of his own sense of guilt. The gray glimmering of dawn, the songs of birds when the pure light softly climbed the sky, roused and relieved him. With the first radiant rising of the sun he returned to the summer-house.
"Do I disturb you?" he asked, waiting at the door.
"No."
"Will you come out and speak to me?"
She appeared at the door, waiting to hear what he had to say to her.
"I must ask you to submit to a sacrifice of your own feelings," he began. "When I kept away from you in the drawing room, last night--when my strange conduct made you fear that you had offended me--I was trying to remember what I owed to my good wife. I have been thinking of her again. We must spare her a discovery too terrible to be endured, while her attention is claimed by the guests who are now in the house. In a week's time they will leave us. Will you consent to keep up appearances? Will you live with us as usual, until we are left by ourselves?"
"It shall be done, Mr. Linley. I only ask one favor of you. My worst enemy is my own miserable wicked heart. Oh, don't you understand me? I am ashamed to look at you!"
He had only to examine his own heart, and to know what she meant.
"Say no more," he answered sadly. "We will keep as much away from each other as we can."
She shuddered at that open recognition of the guilty love which united them, in spite of their horror of it, and took refuge from him in the summer-house. Not a word more passed between them until the unbarring of doors was heard in the stillness of the morning, and the smoke began to rise from the kitchen chimney.
Then he returned, and spoke to her.
"You can get back to the house," he said. "Go up by the front stairs, and you will not meet the servants at this early hour. If they do see you, you have your cloak on; they will think you have been in the garden earlier than usual. As you pass the upper door, draw back the bolts quietly, and I can let myself in."
She bent her head in silence. He looked after her as she hastened away from him over the lawn; conscious of admiring her, conscious of more than he dared realize to himself. When she disappeared, he turned back to wait where she had been waiting. With his sense of the duty he owed to his wife penitently present to his mind, the memory of that fatal kiss still left its vivid impression on him. "What a scoundrel I am!" he said to himself as he stood alone in the summer-house, looking at the chair which she had just left.
