CHAPTER IX.
When the women got up-stairs, Felicia broke down utterly. Her knees failed her; she tottered and clung to Anne, who almost dragged her into her own room and thereby saved her from collapsing on the landing. Anne was too much crushed and humiliated to be wroth with her, and yet it was only through the folly and jealousy of the girl that she had failed.
“Oh, if you had not come,” she moaned.
Felicia lay upon the floor, sobbing.
“I was a fool, a fool. He'll know everything, and tell.”
That he must know was sure, that he would tell was incredible. To hear Felicia say this roused Anne like a whip.
“Tell, tell,” she said; “you wretched girl, what do you know of him? You're safe enough; be sure of that.”
There was no strength in Felicia to resent what Anne told her. She only grasped at hope.
“He'll not tell Doctor Courtney?”
“You think that?”
“Oh, he might.”
“Be sure he will not,” said Anne. “No one will know but Hector, and what's that to you?”
But to her, to Anne, his knowledge might be all! Even now Anne saw his eyes, she anticipated all that he could say. It was horrible to think of. In great agitation she walked the room, while gradually Felicia recovered and warmed her hands at safety. If only the doctor did not know! She knew now that she loved him, and felt but fear for Hector.
Yet Anne loved him, that was certain, very certain. Even now Hector must have those letters in his hands, must inevitably be tempted to read them. If she had read him in the past and made a true judgment of his honor and kindliness he would not yield to his desire. But still he might. In this hour she loathed the powerful dead male who had triumphed over her and now smiled down on the one man she had ever really loved. She could have torn her flesh as she walked the room. And in this anguish, when there was nothing to be done, when action meant no help, her brain was clear, she perceived a hundred ways in which she might have evaded more than mere suspicion. She might have kept the key without any attempt to use it, and have sent a lightly phrased letter to Hector to say that Sir George had had charge of some letters and papers for her. Would Hector now return them? How easy! If she had done nothing Hector would have found the packet and would have burned it.
As she thought of this she remembered suddenly what she had done when she thrust the other papers into the cabinet. She had put there the paper which asked Hector to burn the packets. When he found them in the drawer they would be utterly at his discretion. She was thrice a fool.
Oh, why had Sir George sent her the key at all? He must have been mad, delirious. Yet in that hour he must have thought of her. On her letters he had written “Eheu.” For when she knew at last that she loved Hector she had refused to see the other man, although he used all means in his power to hold her, and to conquer her again.
And still that word “Eheu,” the “Alas,” touched her mind. She was sorry for the dead. Perhaps he had loved her better than any other creature subject to his strength. She believed he had. It helped her a little in her great shame and degradation.
“Oh, but what right have I to love Hector?” she cried. She was a creature of pure remorse. She could make no great excuses, though others might have made them for her, since George Hale had been so very wonderful to her, and stood for the ideal man so bravely. But now, whether Hector knew or not, had she any right to marry him if he asked her? It vouched for the best in her that she quailed and doubted. There are few not content to bury the past if they can dig its grave.
She stood still suddenly, and as she did so she became unconscious that Felicia was in the room. She stood rigidly, while the girl watched her in strained curiosity. Here was a mind working that was a barren mystery to Felicia. But how strange Anne looked!
Felicia, never so ignorant as she seemed, knew that Anne had been Sir George's mistress. Or so she believed. The dogmatic morality, instilled into her mind by rote till it became almost reflex so long as her passions were asleep, was judge of this woman. Therefore she was to be abhorred.
But now Felicia, shaken and cowed and beaten, felt that her judgment was at fault. After all, there was a soul in the girl, she was kindly by nature. That might not have served to help her toward vision with such a woman as Anne. And yet it did help. What it helped was what the meanest coward feels, an involuntary and tremendous respect for courage. Given courage, the vilest is not wholly vile, and here was nothing vile even if lacking according to the creeds.
Felicia was a coward, and knew it. Sometimes she resented it as modern women truly must. Here's the difference between the old order and the new. The old found courage an extra grace of God's, if they possessed it. The new resent not having it, and seek it as bravely as they may, knowing courage a greater thing than chastity. Felicia felt this gift in Anne. Oh, she was amazing!
Anne had faced Felicia in her rage, in rage that stood for the power of strength, and had beaten her; conquered her utterly. That was something. But far more was her swiftness, her audacity, when Hector came down. Had she been in Anne's place Hector would have found her speechless and appalled and paralyzed. Anne had acted; perhaps even had done the best. And then the way in which she had greeted Hector! That was great; the tone of her voice, its gracious managed modulations; her calm face; her pleasant eyes, were all a marvel.
And Felicia knew that she herself had been the one weak spot in their defense. She had not helped; she could not speak. But for Anne's knowledge that she must put her arm about her and draw her into shelter, she would have screamed. Oh, yes, Anne was brave. And Felicia, looking at her while the other seemed unconscious of any one, saw that she might be braver yet.
Anne said to herself: “Whether he finds them or not, I will tell him.”
She meant it, knowing, of course, that he must know something, must suspect. If he had known nothing at all would she have told him?
There are the judgments of the world on the lapses of the world's men and women. It may be there are also the judgments of the heavens. Those are the judgments of nature, after all. Nearest to these are the judgments of the hearts of those who know their own bitterness and sweetness. Whatever others cried out, Anne knew that through this history of hers she was a greater and better woman, not a less one or more evil, as the foolish may declare. If she had surrendered to Hector, leaving him ignorant of her life, she might not have been what he thought her. But assuredly, most assuredly, she would have been greater than he knew, greater by the addition of thought and mercy, and sorrow, and all the conditions which make for inward beauty and the power of the spirit.
“If there is need, I will tell him.”
A great peace fell upon her, and she looked down very kindly on Felicia.
“My dear, you should go to bed now.”
The girl got up on her knees and held to Anne.
“You can be good to me?”
“Why not, Felicia, but can you think kindly of me?”
“You were so brave,” murmured Felicia. “Oh, what a coward I am! It's hateful.”
“Brave! I brave?” said Anne. Indeed, she trembled. It's the truest soul that trembles and is strong.
“Oh, yes, you,” said Felicia. She murmured: “You made me feel so little.”
There was some greatness in Felicia, after all.
“Ah, if you knew”
“I know what I am.”
She had, then, the means for judgment, for comparison.
“And I'm sorry I was cruel to you.”
“Kiss me, Felicia,” said Anne. For she forgave her then.
“Good night, Felicia. said Anne. “Shall I come with you?”
But Felicia shook her head faintly. She said:
“Will you sleep? I sha'n't. I spoiled everything.”
“I think nothing can be helped,” said Anne. “I don't blame you, dear. Once I might have done as you did.”
After all, it is only knowledge and wisdom that make wise action, and though she had wisdom native in her, once she had lacked the knowledge.
And Felicia went to her own room weeping. Dut after a little while her safety assured to her by Anne, was a cloak to her, and warmed her so that she slept.
But Anne kept watch by her fire, and heard Hector move in the room below.
“Once he feared, now he knows,” said Anne. “Yes, he must know.”
She was infinitely grieved for him. This was knowledge that was very bitter. Yet possibly even so it might be worse to lose her. She hoped that it would be, for she loved him greatly. He did not dominate her, did not break her down as the other had done. In his company she was his bright equal; they loved the same things, and often had the same thoughts, the same hopes; more often than not the same judgments. It is in the judgment that likeness lies. And he was always merciful, not, as Sir George had been, with a splendid cynicism, but with the pity which is the sister of love. Now, at this very moment, she was at the bar before him. She pleaded to him, and to a clouded Heaven.
Often, as she sat there, it seemed as if she could not face him, but must go in the morning before he saw her. If she were compelled to meet him she might mask her agitation and say nothing but “good-by.” Then she knew that she would be brave and even reckless. There was courage in her blood; she would not be condemned so.
And still he walked below. His footsteps beat a pathway on her brain.
She waited, waited, and saw the fire die down. But the fire in her soul, in her heart, burned strongly, very strongly.