An aunt, with whom she had lived during the brief interval between her return from India and her marriage, granted her a temporary asylum.

“If you will do with me until I can find some place of my own,” said Irene, “I shall be grateful.”

“My house is always open to dear Robert’s child,” said Miss Beechcroft.

She was an austere woman of primitive views, to whom Irene had ever been a puzzle. As the heroine of this amazing scandal, her niece was a dark and inscrutable enigma. Its transcendency bewildered her. Having no moral foot-rule capable of measuring it, she did not attempt the obviously futile. She waived explanatory details. Her dead brother’s only child craved shelter; she gave it willingly; her own companionship she withheld as much as possible, for a variety of reasons. Not the least was the gentlewoman’s respect for the dignity of suffering.

The freedom from misdirected sympathy was a boon to Irene. She needed solitude. Her universe had crashed about her ears. At first she was dazed, stunned, scarce knowing where to turn amid the shapeless wreckage. Few things could exemplify the cataclysm. Overwhelming proof coming to a Paul at the end of his life that there was no Christ, that his apostolate had been pure silliness, could not have brought him more face to face with chaos. It was too sudden for her to look within for contributing causes. Introspection comes later. At present she could only stare aghast at the ruins of her life, and proceed to shape for herself a temporary existence.

On the second day after the trial she found a measure of mental calmness. The past was irrevocable. Gerard’s self-revelation was final. There was no Gerard, such as she had conceived him; her worship had been a futility. She was conscious that love was dead, killed outright by lightning. Further she could not go. Neither could she forecast the consequences of the threatened divorce. Reconstruction for the present was essential. The effort braced her strength. Nature came to her aid, pride armed her with steadfastness, the fire of suffering steeled her will. She could humble herself no more to Gerard to sue for mercy. In everything henceforward the initiative would lie with him. She throned herself on snowcapped heights.

Yet from time to time her warm woman’s nature drooped earthward and sought for Hugh. But she shrank tremblingly from meeting him, wrote him a second vague postponement. Then regretted it an hour after. She must see him, and that soon; before he encountered Gerard. What would happen if the two men met—Gerard mad with jealous passion, Hugh blazing with indignation? The gentler elements within her took fright. A month before she would have scouted the idea of violence as preposterous. Bloodshed in private quarrel was a thing, in England, of the evil and romantic past. But she would have counted as equally unreal the story of the recent sensational incidents in their lives. Now nothing seemed too improbable for possibility. Calais sands stretched wet and bloodstained before her imagination. But still she shrank from meeting Hugh.

She lay awake long that night, in the primly furnished room where once she had dreamed so many girlish dreams of the man she was about to marry, and strove to disentangle the complexities of her emotions. She dreaded Hugh learning Gerard’s resolution. A cowardly impulse to send Hugh as mediator between Gerard and herself, was strangled at birth by a fierce grip of pride. If she alone could not convince her husband of her fidelity, what mattered his conviction at all? And then the realisation of that of which she stood self-accused lapped her woman’s chastity in fire from head to foot. At last she slept. The morning came, but with it no letter of repentance, as she had vaguely hoped, from Gerard. His decision had been final. In the afternoon she went to Sunnington and superintended the packing of her belongings. The maid Jane aided her, glancing every now and then with scared eyes at the set face of her mistress and dimly comprehending the anguish that lay behind. If Irene had gone through the rooms tearful and sobbing, the girl would have wept in sympathy; but there was that in Irene’s manner that held her silent.

Only once did Irene break down, and then she was alone in the upstairs room, that had been a nursery, and whose high fire-guards—fixtures which they had not disturbed when they took over the house—still suggested its former use. And a small child’s bed was there, occupied in her time by many little waifs. The associations the room had always evoked came back to her. She threw herself face downward on the bed.

“Thank God, thank God,” she cried, “I haven’t got a child!”

Three days are sufficient for a sensation to become ancient history in London. This truth, like most others, is tame and unobtrusive and therefore apt to be disregarded by the still bloodshot vision of the hero of the sensation. The man in the street had forgotten Hugh, but Hugh overrated his memory and studiously kept out of his way. The West End knew him not. What time he did not remain restless in his flat, he walked or bicycled for miles into the country, filling his lungs with the free, sweet spring air and drowning anxieties in the intoxication of motion and freedom.

He had not yet recovered his mental balance, rudely upset by the extraordinary termination of the trial. He knew not whether to call himself arrant knave or blatant fool; a sorry Don Quixote, degraded at the instant of self-plumage; or a poor marionette, with limbs jerked ludicrously by destiny. He had faced death for a contemptuous sentiment of personal honour, in connection with a woman he despised; life had been purchased for him at the cost of the honour of the one woman in the world for whom he would have gladly died a thousand deaths. How did his honour stand? Grotesquely tragic, under any aspect.

An interview with Irene and Gerard would perhaps restore some kind of equilibrium. But hitherto that had been denied. Twice Irene had written a brief “not yet.” Delicacy commanded scrupulous obedience. But the truer and still untainted fountains of his heart welled out towards those two whose magnificent devotion transcended all power of gratitude. And an exquisite sadness of irony was superadded. Would the jury have convicted him, after Gardiner’s handling of the evidence? Cold reason returned an assured negative. But this, those two should never know. Meanwhile he hungered for the sight of Irene.

A friend visited him on the third morning after the trial; Cahusac, a rosy, gold-spectacled man who held a high position on one of the great dailies. Hugh was preparing to ride forth on his quest of the intoxication of budding lanes.

“I must get Holloway out of my blood,” he explained, welcoming his friend. “I think of nothing but God’s air and sunshine. But what brings you from your bed at this hour?”

“Selfishness. I come begging favours.”

“I am the last one to confer them.”

“What are your plans?” asked Cahusac, throwing himself into a seat.

Hugh made a helpless gesture. “I am a ruined man, Cahusac.”

“My dear fellow, half the world forgets and the rest forgives. I have been about much lately, sounding society. The heroic condones. Pardon my frankness.”

“And those two?”

“Who? The Merriams? Of course they are much discussed.”

“I know,” said Hugh. “Look—you asked me for my plans. This is one. I enter no house where I should be pardoned and the Merriams condemned.”

“You must excuse me, Colman,” said Cahusac, somewhat at fault; “I am aware of delicate ground—but why do you speak of them unitedly? Merriam has broken no conventions; naturally, he will be received everywhere, as usual.”

“He will claim equal privileges for his wife.”

“But they are not continuing to live together, as if nothing had happened?”

“Just as if nothing had happened.” replied Hugh, with the conviction of ignorance.

“And your relations remain unbroken?”

“Certainly,” said Hugh.

Cahusac, who had been ascending the scale of mystification, rose from his chair.

“You are three astounding people—the world won’t stand that, you know—it’s almost too much for me, and I’m not squeamish. No. Hang it all—The mari complaisant—and Merriam is the last man in the world—it beats me altogether. Look here, I’ll come back another time. I must digest this first!” The cleanly Briton in him was disgusted. Polyandry in Terra del Fuego is ethnologically interesting. In England it wears a different aspect.

Hugh broke into a half laugh, and, striding forward, seized Cahusac by the shoulder and swung him round.

“You silly fool,” he cried. “Do you suppose I’m the man to let you talk like this about my private affairs, if things were as you think? Has it never entered your head that the story was a lie from beginning to end? That Mrs. Merriam is the purest of women and the most spotless of wives? That it was the desperate stroke of two heroic friends to save a man’s life?”

The journalist’s rosy face expressed blank astonishment. He sank upon a chair and muttered incoherent wonder and apology.

“You are more astounding than ever!” he exclaimed at last. “Of course I was taken in, like the judge, jury, press, public, everybody—I’m heartily thankful.”

Suddenly he grew very grave.

“Are you aware that you have committed a blazing indiscretion?”

“In telling you?”

“Yes.”

“I know something of men,” said Hugh in his grand way.

“You can no more know a man in calm weather than you can know a ship. I myself am not aware what a villain I could be, if it were worth my while. I’ll try to keep straight. But don’t trust any one else with your secret. The blabbing tongue—the ears of the police—that heroic woman had up for perjury—I need say no more.”

Hugh walked about the room, agitated.

“You are right. Of course I knew it in a vague sort of way—but I have been driven half crazy—the strain of the last month—unimaginable—God knows how I pulled through. You are the first man I have spoken to. I couldn’t bear to let you think ill of her—and your kind, honest mug was so refreshing to me—I couldn’t help it. I never realised clearly before, that to save her from penal servitude I must consent to stand by and see the world throw mud at her. What a complicated wreck one’s life becomes as soon as it leaves the rails!”

“Don’t make yourself miserable with false analogies,” said Cahusac, philosophically. “I’m sick of the rails and I want to get off them. For that reason I asked what your plans were—I meant for the immediate future.”

“I shall give up the bar,” said Hugh, with a shudder, “at least criminal work. I said I was a ruined man. That’s why.”

“You persist in misunderstanding,” said the other with a smile. “You forget I came to ask a favour—I am thinking of going abroad for a holiday, taking it now instead of in the inevitable August. Wife doesn’t want to go. I am companionless. Will you take pity on me?”

Hugh’s impulsive nature responded to all the motives of the kindly act. He seized Cahusac’s hand.

“I won’t thank you. There are some deeds of friendship beyond thanks. I’ll come with you all the more gladly now that I have told you. But I should like to see the Merriams before we start.”

Cahusac lifted his eyebrows. “You haven’t seen them yet?”

Hugh received discomfort from his glance. He explained vaguely.

“Take your own time,” said Cahusac, again rising to go. “Things are slack just now. I can get away pretty easily.”

The Good Samaritan departed, and Hugh remained for some time speculative at the window, looking out into the sunshine. He had known Cahusac and his wife fairly intimately for several years. They were friends, too, of the Merriams. But hitherto he had shrouded his private life from them in his customary reserve. He wondered now at the indiscreet expansiveness of which he had been guilty. The secret was safe enough with Cahusac. But would he not have betrayed it, just the same, to a less scrupulous friend, who had come to him that morning with a sympathetic face? The thought gave qualms. The past year had loosened his character. The past month had played havoc with it; had weakened, too, his firm grasp of logical issues. Cahusac had enabled his mind to gain fresh hold. He faced the consequences of Irene’s action with the pain of a great dismay.

The physical longing for air and sun and forgetfulness in quick motion lured him out of doors. He rode hard through Sunnington and along the Heath Road until he reached the open country. He traversed many miles that day, going along lonely stretches of clear road at racing speed which brought the thrill into his veins and the lust of physical life that floods thought. He was in that condition of being which, in a more elemental age, would have carried him baresark into the joy of battle: modern civilisation substitutes the bicycle. Perhaps, after all, we are not more grotesque than our ancestors.

The dusk was falling when he returned by the Heath Road, dusty and thoroughly fatigued. He glanced wistfully at the Merriams’ house as he sped by. The lights were not yet lit. It bore a strange aspect of desertion. For a moment he felt the impulse to turn and seek admittance, get through the strange first interview, whose indefinite postponement was growing stranger still. Irene’s sensitiveness he could understand; besides, she had written twice. But Gerard’s silence was unaccountable. Was he waiting, despite Irene’s messages, for him to take the initiative? The temptation was strong; but obedience to Irene prevailed. He went on, letting his weary mind drift on trivial matters. He would have a meal, smoke, and sleep like a log. It would be the first sound, unstirring sleep for many weeks. The night before he had had a shivering dream of Minna, which had kept him awake till morning. Where was she? He wondered vaguely.

Suddenly a figure crossing the road in front of him caused him to ring his bell. The figure turned. He recognised Irene. In a second he had dismounted and was by her side. She extended her hand, looked at him frankly in the waning light.

“Fate has arranged it for us,” he said. “If you knew how I have been hungering for speech with you!”

“I couldn’t send for you,” she replied. “There were reasons——”

“I know. I have waited patiently. But you feel what I have to express somehow to you and Gerard.”

“You mustn’t see Gerard,” she said, with a little break in her voice. “I think it would be best if you did not see me, either. What is the good of words to thank me? We understand each other too well to need them. Couldn’t you go away for a holiday somewhere? It would be the best for all of us. You mustn’t be hurt—indeed, you mustn’t. But you will do what I ask you?”

“Anything in the wide world. In fact, I am going abroad with Cahusac. I was only waiting until I had seen you. But I don’t understand——”

He stopped, regarded her anxiously. In spite of the falling darkness, he could see that she looked thoroughly ill.

“I may as well tell you at once,” she said, with quiet abruptness, moving a step nearer to him and laying her fingers on the bicycle handle. “You are making the same mistake as I did—reckoning on Gerard’s acquiescence. He is unspeakably angry. We have quarrelled over it. That is why I didn’t send for you. If you could do anything, I should ask you. But it is a matter solely concerning the two of us. Time will set it right.”

She spoke so quietly that he never suspected the truth. On the other hand, he could well realise that, Gerard not consenting, the public sacrifice of his honour should arouse his furious indignation. His conception of the breach between Irene and Gerard was sufficient in itself to keep him speechless with pain and remorse.

“It wasn’t your fault, dear Hugh,” she said, at length, comfortingly. “And don’t think I regret what I did. Gerard will see it in the same light as myself some day.”

“But now—to cause this division between you—I wish I had pleaded guilty. It would have settled everything at once.”

The words fell somewhat incoherently. He writhed under a sense of impotence. How could he comfort or reassure her? His wits floundered. Suddenly they came into sharp contact with an idea. Why was she walking away from the house at this hour of the evening? He put the question.

“I am staying with my aunt, in Redcliffe Gardens,” she replied, calmly. “It was best to avoid the tension at home.”

“I cannot blame. Gerard,” said Hugh, in a low voice. “And yet, I thought——”

“Yes,” said Irene, looking him full in the face. “We both thought.”

Hitherto they had been standing still by the roadside. Now she turned and moved onwards, Hugh accompanying her, slowly wheeling his machine—an incongruous element.

“You can see now why I want you to go away for a little?”

“Only too clearly,” he said, bitterly.

Irene knew that he did not see at all, and cast up at him an instinctive feminine glance, half-grateful, half-pitying.

“When shall you start?”

“Practically at once—as soon as Cahusac can get away. Are you anxious that I should go quickly?”

“I should feel easier.”

“Can I come to see you before I leave?”

“Best not. It will make no difference between us. The old friendship remains.”

They had come to the end of the line of villa residences, to the cross-road that marked the beginning of Sunnington proper. Irene halted.

“You must ride on,” she said, extending her hand. He saw the social necessity. They were a marked couple, and several passers-by had already turned curious eyes upon them.

“I shall stay abroad until I have your permission to return,” he said.

She smiled sadly. It would not be her summons that would bring him back from exile. But she nodded an assent. He pressed her hand, murmured a “God bless you,” and rode off.

The interview that each had looked forward to, with such trepidation, was over. Irene felt somewhat faint from the strain. Deceit was alien to her nature which ever erred in over-frankness. Yet when he quickly disappeared from her following eyes into the gathering darkness, she gave a little sob of relief and hurried on at a brisk pace.