Anne was not expected home before the middle of November. She wrote to her husband, fixing Saturday for the day of her return.

Majendie, therefore, was surprised to find her luggage in the hall when he entered the house at six o'clock on Friday evening. Nanna had evidently been waiting for the sound of his latchkey. She hurried to intercept him.

"The mistress has come home, sir," she said.

"Has she? I hope you've got things comfortable for her."

"Yes, sir. We had a telegram this afternoon. She said she would like to see you in the study, sir, as soon as you came in."

He went at once into the study. Anne was sitting there in her chair by the hearth. Her hat and jacket were thrown on the writing-table that stood near in the middle of the room. She rose as he came in, but made no advance to meet him. He stood still for a moment by the closed door, and they held each other with their eyes.

"I didn't expect you till to-morrow."

"I sent a telegram," she said.

"If you'd sent it to the office I'd have met you."

"I didn't want anybody to meet me."

He felt that her words had some reference to their loss, and to the sadness of her home-coming. A sigh broke from him; but he was unaware that he had sighed.

He sat down, not in his accustomed seat by the hearth, opposite to hers, but in a nearer chair by the writing-table. He saw that she had been writing letters. He pushed them away and turned his chair round so as to face her. His heart ached looking at her.

There were deep lines on her forehead; and she was very pale, even her small close mouth had no colour in it. She kept her sad eyes half hidden under their drooping lids. Her lips were tightly compressed, her narrow nostrils white and pinched. It was a face in which all the doors of life were closing; where the inner life went on tensely, secretly, behind the closing doors.

"Well," he said, "I'm very glad you've come back."

"Walter—have you any idea why I went away?"

"Why you went? Obviously, it was the best thing you could do."

"It was the only thing I could do. And I am glad I did it. My mind has become clearer."

"I see. I thought it would."

"It would not have been clear if I had stayed."

"No," he said vaguely, "of course it wouldn't."

"I've seen," she continued, "that there is nothing for me but to come back. It is the right thing."

"Did you doubt it?"

"Yes. I even doubted whether it were possible—whether, in the circumstances, I could bear to come back, to stay—"

"Do you mean—to—the house?"

"No. I mean—to you."

He turned away. "I understand," he said. "So it came to that?"

"Yes. It came to that. I've been here three hours; and up to the last hour, I was not sure whether I would not pack the rest of my things and go away. I had written a letter to you. There it is, under your arm."

"Am I to read it?"

"Yes."

He turned his back on her, and read the letter.

"I see. You say here you want a separation. If you want it you shall have it. But hadn't you better hear what I have to say, first?"

"I've come back for that. What have you to say?"

He bowed his head upon his breast.

"Not very much, I'm afraid. Except that I'm sorry—and ashamed of myself—and—I ask your forgiveness. What more can I say?"

"What more indeed? I'm to understand, then, that everything I was told is true?"

"It was true."

"And is not now?"

"No. Whoever told you, omitted to tell you that."

"You mean you have given up living with this woman?"

"Yes. If you call it living with her."

"You have given it up—for how long?"

"About five weeks." His voice was almost inaudible.

She winced. Five weeks back brought her to the date of Peggy's death.

"I dare say," she said. "You could hardly—have done less in the circumstances."

"Anne," he said. "I gave it up—I broke it off—before that. I—I broke with her that morning—before I heard."

"You were away that night."

"I was not with her."

"Well—And it was going on, all the time, for three years before that?"

"Yes."

"Ever since your sister's death?"

He did not answer.

"Ever since Edie died," she repeated, as if to herself rather than to him.

"Not quite. Why don't you say—since you sent me away?"

"When did I ever send you away?"

"That night. When I came to you."

She remembered.

"Then? Walter, that is unforgivable. To bring up a little thing like that—"

"You call it a little thing? A little thing?"

"I had forgotten it. And for you to remember it all these years—and to cast it up against me—now—"

"I haven't cast anything up against you."

"You implied you held me responsible for your sin."

"I don't hold you responsible for anything. Not even for that."

Her face never changed. She did not take in the meaning of his emphasis.

He continued. "And, if you want your separation, you shall have it. Though I did hope that you might consider that six years was about enough of it."

"I did want it. But I do not want it now. When I wrote that letter I had forgotten my promise."

"You shall have your promise back again if you want it. I shall not hold you to it, or to anything, if you'd rather not."

"I can never have my promise back—I made it to Edie."

"To Edie?"

"Yes. A short time before she died."

His face brightened.

"What did you promise her?" he said softly.

"That I would never leave you."

"Did she make you promise not to?"

"No. It did not occur to her that I could leave you. She did not think it possible."

"But you did?"

"I thought it possible—yes."

"Even then. There was no reason then. I had given you no cause."

"I did not know that."

"Do you mean that you suspected me—then?"

"I never accused you, Walter, even in my thoughts."

"You suspected?"

"I didn't know."

"And—afterwards—did you suspect anything?"

"No. I never suspected anything—afterwards."

"I see. You suspected me when you had no cause. And when I gave you cause you suspected nothing. I must say you are a very extraordinary woman."

"I didn't know," she answered.

"Who told you? Or must I not ask that?"

"I cannot tell you. I would rather not. I was not told much. And there are some things that I have a right to know."

"Well—"

"Who is this woman?—the girl you've been living with?"

"I've no right to tell you—that. Why do you want to know? It's all over."

"I must know, Walter. I have a reason."

"Can you give me your reason?"

"Yes. I want to help her."

"You would—really—help her?"

"If I can. It is my duty."

"It isn't in the least your duty."

"And I want to help you. That also is my duty. I want to undo, as far as possible, the consequences of your sin. We cannot let the girl suffer."

Majendie was moved by her charity. He had not looked for charity from Anne.

"If you will give me her name, and tell me where to find her, I will see that she is provided for."

"She is provided for."

"How?"

"I am keeping on the house for her."

Anne's face flushed.

"What house?"

"A farm, out in the country."

"That house is yours? You were living with her there?"

"Yes."

Her face hardened. She was thinking of her dead child, who was to have gone into the country to get strong.

He was tortured by the same thought. Maggie, his mistress, had grown fat and rosy in the pure air of Holderness. Peggy had died in Scale.

In her bitterness she turned on him.

"And what guarantee have I that you will not go to her again?"

"My word. Isn't that sufficient?"

"I don't know, Walter. It would have been once. It isn't now. What proof have I of your honour?"

"My—"

"I beg your pardon. I forgot. A man's honour and a woman's honour are two very different things."

"They are both things that are usually taken for granted, and not mentioned."

"I will try to take it for granted. You must forgive my having mentioned it. There is one thing I must know. Has she—that woman—any children?"

"She has none."

Up till that moment, the examination had been conducted with the coolness of intense constraint. But for her one burst of feeling, Anne had sustained her tone of business-like inquiry, her manner of the woman of committees. Now, as she asked her question, her voice shook with the beating of her heart. Majendie, as he answered, heard her draw a long, deep breath of relief.

"And you propose to keep on this house for her?" she said calmly.

"Yes. She has settled in there, and she will be well looked after."

"Who will look after her?"

"The Pearsons. They're people I can trust."

"And, besides the house, I suppose you will give her money?"

"I must make her a small allowance."

"That is a very unwise arrangement. Whatever help is given her had much better come from me."

"From you?"

"From a woman. It will be the best safeguard for the girl."

He saw her drift and smiled.

"Am I to understand that you propose to rescue her?"

"It's my duty—my work."

"Your work?"

"You may not realise it; but that is the work I've been doing for the last three years. I am doubly responsible for a girl who has suffered through my husband's fault."

"What do you want to do with her?"

"I want, if possible, to reclaim her."

He smiled again.

"Do you realise what sort of girl she is?"

"I'm afraid, Walter, she is what you have made her."

"And so you want to reclaim her?"

"I do, indeed."

"You couldn't reclaim her."

"She is very young, isn't she?"

"N—no—She's eight—and—twenty."

"I thought she was a young girl. But, if she's as old as that—and bad—"

"Bad? Bad?"

He rose and looked down on her in anger.

"She's good. You don't know what you're talking about. She isn't a lady, but she's as gentle and as modest as you are yourself. She's sweet, and kind, and loving. She's the most unworldly and unselfish creature I ever met. All the time I've known her she never did a selfish thing. She was absolutely devoted. She'd have stripped herself bare of everything she possessed if it would have done me any good. Why, the very thing you blame the poor little soul for, only proves that she hadn't a thought for herself. It would have been better for her if she'd had. And you talk of 'reclaiming' a woman like that! You want to turn your preposterous committee on to her, to decide whether she's good enough to be taken and shut up in one of your beastly institutions! No. On the whole, I think she'll be better off if you leave her to me."

"Say at once that you think I'd better leave you to her, since you think her perfect."

"She was perfect to me. She gave me all she had to give. She couldn't very well do more."

"You mean she helped you to sin. So, of course, you condone her sin."

"I should be an utter brute if I didn't stand up for her, shouldn't I?"

"Yes." She admitted it. "I suppose you feel that you must defend her. Can you defend yourself, Walter?"

He was silent.

"I'm not going to remind you of your sin against your wife. That you would think nothing of. What have you to say for your sin against her?"

"My sin against her was not caring for her. You needn't call me to account for it."

"I am to believe that you did not care for her?"

"I never cared for her. I took everything from her and gave her nothing, and I left her like a brute."

"Why did you go to her if you did not care for her?"

"I went to her because I cared for my wife. And I left her for the same reason. And she knew it."

"Do you really expect me to believe that you left me for another woman, because you cared for me?"

"For no earthly reason except that."

"You deceived me—you lived in deliberate sin with this woman for three years—and now you come back to me, because, I suppose, you are tired of her—and I am to believe that you cared for me!"

"I don't expect you to believe it. It's the fact, all the same. I wouldn't have left you if I hadn't been hopelessly in love with you. You mayn't know it, and I don't suppose you'd understand it if you did, but that was the trouble. It was the trouble all along, ever since I married you. I know I've been unfaithful to you, but I never loved any one but you. Consider how we've been living, you and I, for the last six years—can you say that I put another woman in your place?"

She looked at him with her sad, uncomprehending eyes; her hands made a hopeless, helpless gesture.

"You know what you have done," she said presently. "And you know that it was wrong."

"Yes, it was wrong. But the whole thing was wrong. Wrong from the beginning. How are we going to make it right?"

"I don't know, Walter. We must do our best."

"Yes, but what are we going to do? What are you going to do?"

"I have told you that I am not going to leave you."

"We are to go on, then, as we did before?"

"Yes—as far as possible."

"Then," he said, "we shall still be all wrong. Can't you see it? Can't you see now that it's all wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"Our life. Yours and mine. Are you going to begin again like that?"

"Does it rest with me?"

"Yes. It rests with you, I think. You say we must make the best of it. What is your notion of the best?"

"I don't know, Walter."

"I must know. You say you'll take me back—you'll never leave me. What are you taking me back to? Not to that old misery? It wasn't only bad for me, dear. It was bad for both of us."

She sighed, and her sigh shuddered to a sob in her throat. The sound went to his heart and stirred in it a passion of pity.

"God knows," he said, "I'd live with you on any terms. And I'll keep straight. You needn't be afraid. Only—See here. There's no reason why you shouldn't take me back. I wouldn't ask you to if I'd left off caring for you. But it wasn't there I went wrong. I can't explain about Maggie. You wouldn't understand. But, if you'd only try to, we might get along. There's nothing that I won't do for you to make up—"

"You can do nothing. There are things that cannot be made up for."

"I know—I know. But still—we mightn't be so unhappy—perhaps, in time—And if we had children—"

"Never," she cried sharply, "never!"

He had not stirred in his chair where he sat bowed and dejected. But she drew back, flinching.

"I see," he said. "Then you do not forgive me."

"If you had come to me, and told me of your temptation—of your sin—three years ago, I would have forgiven you then. I would have taken you back. I cannot now. Not willingly, not with the feeling that I ought to have."

She spoke humbly, gently, as if aware that she was giving him pain. Her face was averted. He said nothing; and she turned and faced him.

"Of course you can compel me," she said. "You can compel me to anything."

"I have never compelled you, as you know."

"I know. I know you have been good in that way."

"Good? Is that your only notion of goodness?"

"Good to me, Walter. Yes. You were very good. I do not say that I will not go back to you; but if I do, you must understand plainly, that it will be for one reason only. Because I desire to save you from yourself. To save some other woman, perhaps—"

"You can let the other woman take care of herself. As for me, I appreciate your generosity, but I decline to be saved on those terms. I'm fastidious about a few things, and that's one of them. What you are trying to tell me is that you do not care for me."

She lifted her face. "Walter, I have never in all my life deceived you. I do not care for you. Not in that way."

He smiled. "Well, I'll be content so long as you care for me in any way—your way. I think your way's a mistake; but I won't insist on that. I'll do my best to adapt my way to yours, that's all."

Her face was very still. Under their deep lids her eyes brooded, as if trying to see the truth inside herself.

"No—no," she moaned. "I haven't told you the truth. I believe there is no way in which I can care for you again. Or—well—I can care perhaps—I'm caring now—but—"

"I see. You do not love me."

She shook her head. "No. I know what love is, and—I do not love you."

"If you don't love me, of course there's nothing more to be said."

"Yes, there is. There's one thing that I have kept from you."

"Well," he said, "you may as well let me have it. There's no good keeping things from me."

"I had meant to spare you."

At that he laughed. "Oh, don't spare me."

She still hesitated.

"What is it?"

She spoke low.

"If you had been here—that night—Peggy would not have died."

He drew a quick breath. "What makes you think that?" he said quietly.

"She overstrained her heart with crying. As you know. She was crying for you. And you were not there. Nothing would make her believe that you were not dead."

She saw the muscles of his face contract with sudden pain.

He looked at her gravely. The look expressed his large male contempt for her woman's cruelty; also a certain luminous compassion.

"Why have you told me this?" he said.

"I've told you, because I think the thought of it may restrain you when nothing else will."

"I see. You mean to say, you believe I killed her?"

Anne closed her eyes.