CHAPTER XXI
I amconsumed with the belief that something has happened. On the assumption of her instinct alone Bellwattle has taken matters into her own hands. Her visit of the evening before last to the Miss Fennells' house had for its intention a talk with Clarissa. Whether she saw her or not I cannot rightly guess. Somehow it would seem that she did.
After breakfast yesterday morning she called me out into the garden and begged me to stay over the week-end till Tuesday or Wednesday at least. No sooner had she made this request than I turned and faced her.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because we want you to."
"You've said you wanted me to stay an indefinite length of time. But why Tuesday or Wednesday?"
A distressful look came into her eyes as she sought for inspiration to give me answer.
"Must you always have a woman's reason before you grant the favor she is asking?"
"It's a good policy," said I.
"Yes—but what's the good of being political with a woman?"
"It needs more than politics," said I, smiling, "if one's going to get the better of her. Can't you tell me why you want me to stay?"
"No—I can't."
"Well, now, that's a reasonable answer," I replied, "for now I know."
"You can know as much as you like if you stay until Wednesday, and then I'll tell you how wrong you were."
So I have agreed, and here it is Sunday morning. As far as is possible I know it has something to do with Clarissa. Beyond that I am absolutely in the dark.
At about eleven o'clock Bellwattle asked me to come out with her for the last time to see the cottage in the hollow, and as we walked up the boreen on our way to the cliff I determined, at the expense even of my honor, to try and surprise her into the truth.
"Being a woman," said I, suddenly, "you really have a greater sense of honor than I have as a man."
She glanced at me oddly with that one suspecting eye.
"You don't think that," she said.
"I'm going to prove it," said I. "I'm going to betray a confidence which was betrayed to me, if you will promise not to turn round and betray my confidence in you."
"Say that all again," she asked.
I repeated it, slowly and simply, word for word.
"And you expect me to keep my promise of secrecy when you and somebody else have broken yours?"
"If you make the promise," said I, "yes. I've said that, being a woman, you have a greater sense of honor than I. I'm going to prove that I believe it, by putting myself in your hands."
She gazed steadily in front of her. The charm was working well. I could see it in her eyes. After accepting that, there is not a woman in the world who would have given me away.
"Go on," she said, at length.
I paused for a moment to let my words get weight, and then, suddenly, I had it out.
"Why did you tell Cruikshank," I asked, "that I was coming to live in the cottage next year?"
She knew she was in a corner, and she sought to gain time.
"When did he tell you that?" she inquired.
"Some little while ago in the garden. Only after he'd mentioned it did he remember that you had told him not to speak of it. Had he wilfully broken the confidence I shouldn't have said anything about it. But no blame can attach itself to him, and I want to know."
She looked at me for a long time before she answered, after which there came from her one of those little flashes of wisdom wherewith at moments she surprises you so much.
"When a woman hopes for a thing very much," she answered, "she always says that it is going to be. Every woman can bear disappointment. She has to bear it all her life. But you kill her when you take away hope. Men always say the reverse, because they know they can never bear the disappointment. That's the sort of reason why I told Cruikshank you were coming here next year."
That was all the success I got out of my surprising her, an expression of sympathy and appreciation for myself so delicately conveyed that it robbed me of all power to wonder whether it were the truth. She wanted me to come and live there. I wondered then if, when I got back to London, she would accept from me the present of one of those Victorian sun-bonnets to wear when she walks about on these cliffs. On the spur of the moment I asked her.
She laughed out loud, and said I was the oddest man she had ever met. It did not seem so odd to me.
"Will you let me send you one?" said I.
"Of course."
"And you'll wear it?"
"I shall love it."
"Then, when I come next summer," said I, "I shall see you in it."
We were laughing about it after we had reached the cliffs when suddenly there came the figure of a man along the winding path. He was alone, and even though I knew but few of the people in Ballysheen by sight there seemed to me something familiar in his presence there.
"Who's this?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I've never seen him before," she replied.
But as he came nearer a memory seemed to quiver in my mind. I had seen him. But where? Where? It was as he passed us in silence that I remembered. For in that moment his eyes looked with recognition into mine. In the flash of that moment it all came back. In the restaurant—that night at supper—talking to that woman over their coffee and liqueur—Clarissa's lover—the man I had come to hate.
"My God!" I muttered, when he had gone by, and as I looked up into Bellwattle's face her cheeks were quite white.