’I only make this confession’—­so she concluded—­’for the sake of the poor child that will soon be born.  The child is yours, and ought not to suffer because of what I did.  The enclosed letter will prove this to you, if anything can.  For myself I ask nothing.  I don’t think I shall live.  If I do I will consent to anything you propose.  I only ask you to behave without any pretence; if you cannot forgive me, do not make a show of it.  Say what your will is, and that shall be enough’.

He did not go to bed that night.  There was a fire in the room, and he kept it alight until daybreak, when he descended softly to the hall and let himself out of the house.

In a fierce wind that swept from the north-west down the foaming Channel, he walked for an hour or two, careless whither the roads directed him.  All he desired was to be at a distance from that house, with its hideous silence and the faint cry that could scarcely be called a sound.  The necessity of returning, of spending days there, was an Oppression which held him like a nightmare.

Monica’s statement he neither believed nor disbelieved; he simply could not make up his mind about it.  She had lied to him so resolutely before; was she not capable of elaborate falsehood to save her reputation and protect her child?  The letter from Bevis might have been a result of conspiracy between them.

That Bevis was the man against whom his jealousy should have been directed at first astounded him.  By now he had come to a full perception of his stupidity in never entertaining such a thought.  The revelation was equivalent to a second offence just discovered; for he found it impossible to ignore his long-cherished suspicion of Barfoot, and he even surmised the possibility of Monica’s having listened to love-making from that quarter previously to her intimacy with Bevis.  He loathed the memory of his life since marriage; and as for pardoning his wife, he could as soon pardon and smile upon the author of that accursed letter from Bordeaux.

But go back to the house he must.  By obeying his impulse, and straightway returning to London, he might be the cause of a fatal turn in Monica’s illness.  Constraint of bare humanity would keep him here until his wife was out of danger.  But he could not see her, and as soon as possible he must escape from such unendurable circumstances.

Re-entering at half-past eight, he was met by Alice, who seemed to have slept as little as he himself had done.  They went into the dining-room.

‘She has been inquiring about you,’ began Miss Madden timorously.

‘How is she?’

‘Not worse, I believe.  But so very weak.  She wishes me to ask you—­’

‘What?’

His manner did not encourage the poor woman.

’I shall be obliged to tell her something.  If I have nothing to say she will fret herself into a dangerous state.  She wants to know if you have read her letter, and if—­if you will see the child.’