And with a foreboding heart Theophil went back to Isabel.  Yet, as Jenny had said, they were not to see each other for a long time again; and if presently Theophil forgot Jenny crying upstairs, was it not because he did not know the reason of her tears?

On the morrow Jenny pleaded weariness and stayed in bed, so that Theophil saw Isabel off to London alone, and he did not see Jenny again till the evening.

CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH JENNY CRIES

Jenny was not at the door that evening to welcome Theophil home, as she usually was, and she made some excuse not to join him at dinner; but at last, when the quiet secure hour which had always been theirs between dinner and bedtime had come, she came into his room quietly and sat in her accustomed chair.

She had been fighting all day to gain strength for this hour, and her will was bravely set to speak what must be spoken.  But she must firmly choke back all the sweetness of the memories which sprang to her with kind eyes, as the familiar little room that had not changed opened its arms to her, alas! an ironical symbol of unchangeableness.  One touch of tenderness too vivid and she would break down.

And here was Theophil rising from his desk and coming to her with true love in his eyes, as he had done so many, many happy nights.

Was it, after all, a dream—­that terrible picture of two lighted figures that was for ever in her eyes?  No, there was a voice that went day and night with the dream, a voice of terrible tenderness that kept crying:  “Meantime I bless thee ... “—­“I bless thy lamp to oil, thy cup to wine ...”  Ah, no, it was real, real.  The trial was not to pass from her in a dream.

Theophil had knelt down at her side and taken her hand gently and would have kissed her, but that her eyes were so full of pain as she turned them to meet his.  Besides, strange words to hear! she was asking him not to kiss her.

“Theophil dear, don’t kiss me yet.  I have something to say, and if you kiss me I shall have no strength to say it.”

“Jenny!”

“Dear,” she began with a voice that seemed to bleed at every word, “I want to be so kind.  I don’t want to hurt you with a single word.  You’ll believe that, won’t you?”

Theophil pressed her hand for assent, but already in a flash the whole revelation was upon him.  Jenny knew he loved Isabel.  This awful pain that was all over her was the lightning from which they had willed to save her.

“Theophil,” Jenny had gone on, and there seemed a death in every word, “I know that you love Isabel.”

“O Jenny!”

“I saw you together, dear, in the vestry last night.  It was an accident.  You didn’t hear me.”

“O my Jenny!  I would rather have died than this.”

“Yes, I think you would, dear.  But you must not be too sad.  Life is terrible,—­like this.  I understand it now.  I know it was not you, or Isabel, or me.  It was just fate—­and we must try and help each other.  Don’t think I have been only sorry for myself.  Don’t think that of me.  But I think you should have trusted me, dear.”