"She has told me herself, Janey. She may have more reasons than you know."

"She has none, none that I don't know. They're all there in that letter which you've burnt. Can't you see why it was written?"

"Does it matter why?"

"Yes, it does matter. It was written to make you give Kitty up. There's no reason why I should spare the woman who wrote it. She hates Kitty--because she wanted you for herself. Kitty knows that she's slandered her. She did it before she went, to her face, and Kitty forgave her. And now the poor child thinks that she'll let you go, and just creep away quietly and hide herself--from _that_. And you'll let her do it? You believe her when she says she doesn't care for you? If that isn't caring--Why it's _because_ she cares for you, and cares for your honour more than she does for her own, poor darling----"

"I know, Janey. And she knows I know."

"Then where's your precious honour if you don't stand up for her? She's got n.o.body but you, and if you don't defend her from that sort of thing----"

She stood before him, flaming, and Kitty rose and put herself between them.

"He can't defend me, Janey. It's the truth."

CHAPTER XX

She had left them to each other. It was eight o'clock. She had crept back again to the bed that was her refuge, where she had lain for the last hour, weeping to exhaustion. She had raised herself at the touch of a hand on her hot forehead. Jane was standing beside her.

"Kitty," she said, "will you see Robert for a moment? He's waiting for you downstairs, in your room."

Kitty dropped back again on her pillow with her arm over her face, warding off Jane's gaze.

"No," she said, "I can't see him. I can't go through that again."

"But, Kitty, there's something he wants to say to you."

"There's nothing he can say. Nothing--nothing. Tell him I'm going away."

"You mustn't go without seeing him."

"I must. It's the only way."

"For you--yes. How about him?"

Kitty sighed. She stirred irresolutely on her pillow.

"No, no," she said. "I've done it once. I can't do it all over again."

"I suppose," said Jane, "it _is_ easier--not to see him."

At that Kitty clenched her hands.

"Easier?" she cried. "I'd give my soul to see him for one minute--one minute, Janey."

She turned, stifling her sobs on her pillow. They ceased, and the pa.s.sion that was in her had its way then. She lay on her face, convulsed, biting into the pillow; gripping the sheets, tearing at them and wringing them in her hands. Her whole body writhed, shaken and tormented.

"Oh, go away!" she cried. "Go away. Don't look at me!"

But Jane did not go. She stood there by the bedside.

She had come to the end of her adventure. It was as if she had been brought there blindfold, carried past the border into the terrible, alien, unpenetrated lands. Her genius for exploration had never taken her within reasonable distance of them. She had turned back when the frontier was in sight, refusing all knowledge of the things that lay beyond. And here she was, in the very thick of it, at the heart of the unexplored, with her poor terrified eyes uncovered, her face held close to the thing she feared. And yet she had pa.s.sed through the initiation without terror; she had held her hand in the strange fire and it had not hurt her. She felt only a great penetrating, comprehending, incorruptible pity for her sister who writhed there, consumed and tortured in the flame.

She knelt by the bedside and stretched out her arm and covered her, and Kitty lay still.

"You haven't gone?" she said.

"No, Kitty."

Kitty moved; she sat up and put her hands to her loosened hair.

"I'll see him now," she said.

Kitty slid her feet to the floor. She stood up, steadying herself by the bedside.

Jane looked at her, and her heart was wrung with compa.s.sion.

"No," she said, "wait till you're better. I'll tell him."

But Kitty was before her at the door, leaning against it.

"I shall never be better," she said. Her smile was ghastly. She turned to Jane on the open threshold. "He hasn't got the children with him, has he? I don't want to see them."

"You won't see them."

"Can't he come to me?"

She peered down the pa.s.sage and drew back, and Jane knew that she was afraid of being seen.

"There's n.o.body about," she said, "they're all in the dining-room."

Still Kitty hesitated.

"Will you come with me?" she said.

Then Jane took her hand and led her to the room where Robert was, and left her with him.

He stood by the hearth, waiting for her. His head was bowed, but his eyes, as she entered, lifted and fixed themselves on her. There had gone from him that air of radiant and unconquerable youth, of innocence, expectant and alert. Instead of it he too wore the mark of experience, of initiation that had meant torture.

"I hope," he said, "you are rested."

"Oh yes."

She stood there, weak and drooping, leaning her weight on one slender hand, spread palm downward on the table.