‘My own dearest love, if I could but describe to you all I have suffered before sitting down to write this letter! Since our last meeting I have not known one hour of quietness. To think that I missed you when you called and left that note — for it was you yourself, was it not? The journey was horrible, and the week that I have spent here — I assure you I have not slept for more than a few minutes at a time, and I am utterly broken down by misery. My darling’— etc. ‘I regard myself as a criminal; if you have suffered a thousandth part of what I have, I deserve any punishment that could be devised. For it has all been my fault. Knowing as I did that our love could never end in happiness, it was my duty to hide what I felt. I ought never to have contrived that first meeting alone — for it was contrived; I sent my sisters away on purpose. I ought never’— etc. ‘The only reflection that can ever bring me comfort is that our love has been pure. We can always think of each other without shame. And why should this love ever have an end? We are separated, and perhaps shall never see each other again, but may not our hearts remain for ever true? May we not think’— etc. ‘If I were to bid you leave your home and come to me, I should be once more acting with base selfishness. I should ruin your life, and load my own with endless self-reproach. I find that even mere outward circumstances would not allow of what for a moment we dreamt might be possible, and of that I am glad, since it helps me to overcome the terrible temptation. Oh, if you knew how that temptation’— etc. ‘Time will be a friend to both of us, dearest Monica. Forget each other we never can, we never will. But our unsullied love’— etc.

Monica read it through again, the long rigmarole. Since the day that she received it — addressed to ‘Mrs. Williamson’ at the little stationer’s by Lavender Hill — the day before she consented to accompany her sister into new lodgings — the letter had lain in its hiding-place. Alone this afternoon, for Virginia was gone to call on Miss Nunn, alone and miserable, every printed page a weariness to her sight, she took out the French-stamped envelope and tried to think that its contents interested her. But not a word had power of attraction or of repulsion. The tender phrases affected her no more than if they had been addressed to a stranger. Love was become a meaningless word. She could not understand how she had ever drifted into such relations with the writer. Fear and anger were the sole passions surviving in her memory from those days which had violently transformed her life, and it was not with Bevis, but her husband, that these emotions were connected. Bevis’s image stood in that already distant past like a lay figure, the mere semblance of a man. And with such conception of him his letter corresponded; it was artificial, lifeless, as if extracted from some vapid novel.

But she must not destroy it. Its use was still to come. Letter and envelope must go back again into hiding, and await the day which would give them power over human lives.

Suffering, as always, from headache and lassitude, she sat by the window and watched the people who passed along — her daily occupation. This sitting-room was on the ground floor. In a room above some one was receiving a music lesson; every now and then the teacher’s voice became audible, raised in sharp impatience, and generally accompanied by a clash upon the keys of the piano. At the area gate of the house opposite a servant was talking angrily with a tradesman’s errand boy, who at length put his thumb to his nose with insulting significance and scampered off. Then, at the house next to that one, there stopped a cab, from which three busy-looking men alighted. Cabs full of people were always stopping at that door. Monica wondered what it meant, who might live there. She thought of asking the landlady.

Virginia’s return aroused her. She went upstairs with her sister into the double-bedded room which they occupied.

‘What have you heard?’

‘He went there. He told them everything.’

‘How did Miss Nunn look? How did she speak?’

‘Oh, she was very, very distant,’ lamented Virginia. ‘I don’t quite know why she sent for me. She said there would be no use in her coming to see you — and I don’t think she ever will. I told her that there was no truth in-’

‘But how did she look?’ asked Monica impatiently.

‘Not at all well, I thought. She had been away for her holiday, but it doesn’t seem to have done her much good.’

‘He went there and told them everything?’

‘Yes — just after it happened. But he hasn’t seen them since that. I could see they believed him. It was no use all that I said. She looked so stern and —’

‘Did you ask anything about Mr. Barfoot?’

‘My dear, I didn’t venture to. It was impossible. But I feel quite sure that they must have broken off all intercourse with him. Whatever he may have said, they evidently didn’t believe it. Miss Barfoot is away now.

‘And what did you tell her about me?’

‘Everything that you said I might, dear.’

‘Nothing else — you are sure?’

Virginia coloured, but made asseveration that nothing else had passed her lips.

‘It wouldn’t have mattered if you had,’ said Monica indifferently. ‘I don’t care.’

The sister, struggling with shame, was irritated by the needlessness of her falsehood.

‘Then why were you so particular to forbid me, Monica?’

‘It was better — but I don’t care. I don’t care for anything. Let them believe and say what they like —’

‘Monica, if I find out at last that you have deceived me —’

‘Oh, do, do, do be quiet!’ cried the other wretchedly. ‘I shall go somewhere and live alone — or die alone. You worry me — I’m tired of it.’

‘You are not very grateful, Monica.’

‘I can’t be grateful! You must expect nothing from me. If you keep talking and questioning I shall go away. I don’t care what becomes of me. The sooner I die the better.’

Scenes such as this had been frequent lately. The sisters were a great trial to each other’s nerves. Tedium and pain drove Monica to the relief of altercation, and Virginia, through her secret vice, was losing all self-control. They wrangled, wailed, talked of parting, and only became quiet when their emotions had exhausted them. Yet no ill-feeling resulted from these disputes. Virginia had a rooted faith in her sister’s innocence; when angry, she only tried to provoke Monica into a full explanation of the mystery, so insoluble by unaided conjecture. And Monica, say what she might, repaid this confidence with profound gratitude. Strangely, she had come to view herself as not only innocent of the specific charge brought against her, but as a woman in every sense maligned. So utterly void of significance, from her present point of view, was all that had passed between her and Bevis. One reason for this lay in the circumstance that, when exchanging declarations with her lover, she was ignorant of a fact which, had she known it, would have made their meetings impossible. Her husband she could never regard but as a cruel enemy; none the less, nature had set a seal upon their marriage against which the revolt of her heart was powerless. If she lived to bear a child, that child would be his. Widdowson, when he heard of her condition, would declare it the final proof of infidelity; and this injustice it was that exclusively occupied her mind. On this account she could think only of the accusation which connected her name with Barfoot’s — all else was triviality. Had there been no slightest ground for imputation upon her conduct, she could not have resented more vigorously her husband’s refusal to acquit her of dishonour.

On the following day, after their early dinner, Monica unexpectedly declared that she must go out.

‘Come with me. We’ll go into the town.’

‘But you refused to go out this morning when it was fine,’ complained Virginia. ‘And now you can see it will rain.’

‘Then I shall go alone.’

The sister at once started up.

‘No, no; I’m quite ready. Where do you wish —’

‘Anywhere out of this dead place. We’ll go by train, and walk from Victoria — anywhere. To the Abbey, if you like.’

‘You must be very careful not to catch cold. After all this time that you haven’t left the house —’

Monica cut short the admonition and dressed herself with feverish impatience. As they set forth, drops of rain had begun to fall, but Monica would not hear of waiting. The journey by train made her nervous, but affected her spirits favourably. At Victoria it rained so heavily that they could not go out into the street.

‘It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty to see here. Let us walk about and look at things. We’ll buy something at the bookstall to take back.’

As they turned again towards the platform, Monica was confronted by a face which she at once recognized, though it had changed noticeably in the eighteen months since she last saw it. The person was Miss Eade, her old acquaintance at the shop. But the girl no longer dressed as in those days; cheap finery of the ‘loudest’ description arrayed her form, and it needed little scrutiny to perceive that her thin cheeks were artificially reddened. The surprise of the meeting was not Monica’s only reason for evincing embarrassment. Seeing that Miss Eade was uncertain whether to make a sign of acquaintance, she felt it would be wiser to go by. But this was not permitted. As they were passing each other the girl bent her head and whispered  —

‘I want to speak to you — just a minute.’

Virginia perceived the communication, and looked in surprise at her sister.

‘It’s one of the girls from Walworth Road,’ said Monica. ‘Just walk on; I’ll meet you at the bookstall.’

‘But, my dear, she doesn’t look respectable —’

‘Go on; I won’t be a minute.’

Monica motioned to Miss Eade, who followed her towards a more retired spot.

‘You have left the shop?’

‘Left — I should think so. Nearly a year ago. I told you I shouldn’t stand it much longer. Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

Monica did not understand why the girl should eye her so suspiciously.

‘You are?’ said Miss Eade. ‘Nobody that I know, I suppose?’

‘Quite a stranger to you.’

The other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked vaguely about her. Then she remarked inconsequently that she was waiting the arrival of her brother by train.

‘He’s a traveller for a West-end shop; makes five hundred a year. I keep house for him, because of course he’s a widower.’

The ‘of course’ puzzled Monica for a moment, but she remembered that it was an unmeaning expletive much used by people of Miss Eade’s education. However, the story did not win her credence; by this time her disagreeable surmises had too much support.

‘Was there anything you wished particularly to speak about?’

‘You haven’t seen nothing of Mr. Bullivant?’

To what a remote period of her life this name seemed to recall Monica! She glanced quickly at the speaker, and again detected suspicion in her eyes.

‘I have neither seen nor heard of him since I left Walworth Road. Isn’t he still there?’

‘Not he. He went about the same time you did, and nobody knew where he hid himself.’

‘Hid? Why should he hide?’

‘I only mean he got out of sight somewheres. I thought perhaps you might have come across him.’

‘No, I haven’t. Now I must say good-bye. That lady is waiting for me.’

Miss Eade nodded, but immediately altered her mind and checked Monica as she was turning away.

‘You wouldn’t mind telling me what your married name may be?’

‘That really doesn’t concern you, Miss Eade,’ replied the other stiffly. ‘I must go —’

‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll follow you till I find out, and chance it!’

The change from tolerable civility to coarse insolence was so sudden that Monica stood in astonishment. There was unconcealed malignity in the gaze fixed upon her.

‘What do you mean? What interest have you in learning my name?’

The girl brought her face near, and snarled in the true voice of the pavement  —

‘Is it a name as you’re ashamed to let out?’

Monica walked away to the bookstall. When she had joined her sister, she became aware that Miss Eade was keeping her in sight.

‘Let us buy a book,’ she said, ‘and go home again. The rain won’t stop.’

They selected a cheap volume, and, having their return tickets, moved towards the departure platform. Before she could reach the gates Monica heard Miss Eade’s voice just behind her; it had changed again, and the appealing note reminded her of many conversations in Walworth Road.

‘Do tell me! I beg your pardon for bein’ rude. Don’t go without telling me.’

The meaning of this importunity had already flashed upon Monica, and now she felt a slight pity for the tawdry, abandoned creature, in whom there seemed to survive that hopeless passion of old days.

‘My name,’ she said abruptly, ‘is Mrs. Widdowson.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘I have told you what you wish to know. I can’t talk —’

‘And you don’t really know nothing about him?’

‘Nothing whatever.’

Miss Eade moved sullenly away, not more than half convinced. Long after Monica’s disappearance she strayed about the platform and the approaches to the station. Her brother was slow in arriving. Once or twice she held casual colloquy with men who also stood waiting — perchance for their sisters; and ultimately one of these was kind enough to offer her refreshment, which she graciously accepted. Rhoda Nunn would have classed her and mused about her: a not unimportant type of the odd woman.

After this Monica frequently went out, always accompanied by her sister. It happened more than once that they saw Widdowson, who walked past the house at least every other day; he didn’t approach them, and had he done so Monica would have kept an obstinate silence.............