Mr. Athel shall be told.  Yes, it is hard for me, but perhaps not quite in the way you think.  I don’t hate her, indeed I don’t.  If you knew that story, which you never can I No, I don’t hate her.  I kissed her, aunt, with my lips—­indeed.  She couldn’t find me out; I acted too well for that.  But I couldn’t have done it if I had hated her.  She is so altered from what she was.  You know that I liked her years ago.  She interested me in a strange, strange way; it seems to me now that I foresaw how her fate would be connected with mine.  I knew that Wilfrid loved her before anyone else had dreamt of such a thing.  Now promise your help.’

‘Have they gone away?’ her aunt asked.

‘I don’t know.  It is likely.’

Her face went white to the lips; for a moment she quivered.

‘Beatrice, stay with me,’ said Mrs. Baxendale.  ’Stay ’with me here for a day or two.’

’Willingly.  I wished it.  Mrs. Birks is all kindness, but I find it hard to talk, and she won’t let me be by myself.  Don’t think I am ill—­no, indeed no!  It’s only rest that I want.  It seems a long time since Sunday.  But you haven’t yet promised me, aunt.  It will be much harder if I have to do everything myself.  I promised him that everything should be made smooth.  I want to show him that my—­that my love was worth having.  It’s more than all women would do, isn’t it, aunt?  Of course it isn’t only that; there’s the pleasure of doing something for him.  And he cannot help being grateful to me as long as he lives.  Suppose I had gone and told her She would never have married him.  She was never beautiful, you know, and now her face is dreadfully worn, but I think I understand why he loves her.  Of course you cannot know her as well as I do.  And you will help me, aunt?’

‘Are you perfectly sure that they have been married this morning?’ Mrs. Baxendale asked, with quiet earnestness.

‘Sure, quite sure.’

‘In any other case I don’t know whether I should have done as you wish.’

’You would have tried to prevent it?  Oh no, you are too wise!  After all this time, and he loves her as much as ever.  Don’t you see how foolish it would be to fret about it?  It is fete, that’s all.  You know we all have our fate.  Do you know what I used to think mine would he?  I feared madness; my poor father—­But I shall not fear that now; I have gone through too much; my mind has borne it.  But I must have rest, and I can only rest if I know that you are helping me.  You promise?’

‘I will do my best, dear.’

’And your best is best indeed, aunt.  You will go to Mrs. Birks and tell her where I am?  The sooner you speak to her the better.  I will lie down.  If you knew how worn-out I feel!’

She rose, but stood with difficulty.  Mrs. Baxendale put her arm about her and kissed her cheek.  Then she led her to another room.

Tension in Beatrice was nearing the point of fever.  She had begun the conversation with every appearance of calmness; now she was only to be satisfied by immediate action towards the end she had in view, every successive minute of delay was an added torment.  She pressed her aunt to go to Mrs. Birks forthwith; that alone could soothe her.  Mrs. Baxendale yielded and set out.