Her tone was that of one continuing a conversation.  There might have been no break between yesterday and to-day.  We cannot always gather from the voice what struggle has preceded utterance.

Wilfrid turned away.  On the table lay that letter of Emily’s; he had read it many times, and was reading it when the knock disturbed him.  With a sudden movement, he took up the sheet of paper and held it to Beatrice.

’It is there—­the reason.  I myself have only known it a few hours.  Read that.  I have no right to show it you—­and no right to refuse.’

Beatrice held the letter for a brief space without turning her eyes upon it.  Wilfrid walked to a distance, and at length she read.  Emily had recounted every circumstance of her father’s death, and told the history of her own feelings, all with complete simplicity, almost coldly.  Only an uncertainty in the hand-writing here and there showed the suffering it had cost her to look once more into the very eyes of the past.  Yet it was of another than herself that she wrote; she felt that even in her memory of woe.

They faced each other again.  Beatrice’s eyes were distended; their depths lightened.

‘I am glad!  I am glad you met her before it was too late!’

Her voice quivered upon a low, rich note.  Such an utterance was the outcome of a nature strong to the last limit of self-conquest.  Wilfrid heard and regarded her with a kind of fear; her intensity passed to him; he trembled.

‘I have nothing to pardon,’ she continued.  ’You were hers long before my love had touched your heart.  You have tried to love me; but this has come soon enough to save us both.’

And again—­

’If I did not love you, I should act selfishly; but self is all gone from me.  In this moment I could do greater things to help you to happiness.  Tell me; have you yet spoken to—­to the others?’

‘To no one.’

’Then do not.  It shall all come from me.  No one shall cast upon you a shadow of blame.  You have done me no wrong; you were hers, and you wronged her when you tried to love me.  I will help you—­at least I can be your friend.  Listen; I shall see her.  It shall be I who have brought you together again—­that is how the shall all think of it.  I shall see her, and as your friend, as the only one to whom you have yet spoken.  Do you understand me, Wilfrid?  Do you see that I make the future smooth for her and you?  She must never know what we know, And the others—­they shall do as I will; they shall not dare to speak one word against you.  What right have they, if I am—­am glad?’

He stood in amaze.  It was impossible to doubt her sincerity; her face, the music of her voice, the gestures by which her eagerness expressed herself, all were too truthful.  What divine nature had lain hidden in this woman!  He gazed at her as on a being more than mortal.

‘How can I accept this from you?’ he asked hoarsely.