Lady Charlton had had a few moments’ warning of disaster, for she was horrified at the change in Rose’s face when she met her at the door of the church after Evensong.  She herself had been utterly soothed and rested by the beauty of the service.  There was so much that fitted in with all her ideals in mourning the great soldier.  Little phrases about him and about Rose flitted through her mind.  Widows were widows indeed to Lady Charlton.  Rose would live now chiefly for Heaven and to soothe the sorrows of earth.  She did not say to herself that Rose would not be broken-hearted and crushed, nor did she take long views.  If years hence Rose were to marry again her mother could make another picture in which Sir David would recede into the background.  Now he was her hero whom Rose mourned, and whose loss had consecrated her more entirely to Heaven; then he would unconsciously become in her mother’s eyes a much older man whom Rose had married almost as a child.  There would be nothing necessarily to mar the new picture if all else were fitting.

But the peace of gentle sorrow had left Rose’s face, and it wore a look her mother had never seen on it before.  The breath of evil was close upon her; it had penetrated very near, so near that she seemed evil to herself as it embraced her.  She was too dazed, too confused to remember that Divine purity had been enclosed in that embrace.  What terrified her most was the thought that had suddenly come that possibly the unknown woman in Florence had been the real lawful wife, and that her own marriage had been a sin, a vile pretence and horror.  For the first time in her life the grandest words of confidence that have expressed and interpreted the clinging faith of humanity seemed an unreality.  Rose had never known the faintest temptation to doubt Providence before this miserable evening.  She resented with her whole being the idea that possibly she had been the cause of the grossest wrong to an injured wife.  And there was ground in reason for such a fear, for it seemed difficult to believe that any claim short of that of a wife could have frightened Sir David into such a course.  The other and more common view, that it was because he had loved his mistress throughout, did not appeal to her.  Vice had for her few recognisable features; she had no map for the country of passion, no precedents to refer to.  It seemed to Rose most probable that Sir David had believed his first wife to be dead when he married her; that, on finding he was mistaken, his courage had failed, and that he had carried on a gigantic scheme of bribery to prevent her coming forward.  This view was in one sense a degree less painful, as it would make him innocent of the first great deception, the huge lie of making love to her as if he were a free man.  The depths and extent of her misery could be measured by the strange sense of a bitter gladness invading the very recesses of her maternal instinct, and replacing what had been the heartfelt sorrow of six years.  “It is a mercy I have no child!” she cried, and the cry seemed to herself almost blasphemous.