A strange, almost unearthly joy suddenly flashed across her face.

“It must be true,” she said.  “It must be true.  He has sent you, Betty.  It has been a long time—­it has been so long that sometimes I have forgotten his words.  But you have come!”

“Yes, I have come,” Betty answered.  And she bent forward and kissed her gently, as if she had been soothing a child.

There were other questions to ask.  She was obliged to ask them.  “The unexpected thing” had been used as an instrument for years.  It was always efficacious.  Over the yearningly homesick creature had hung the threat that her father and mother, those she ached and longed for, could be told the story in such a manner as would brand her as a woman with a shameful secret.  How could she explain herself?  There were the awful, written words.  He was her husband.  He was remorseless, plausible.  She dared not write freely.  She had no witnesses to call upon.  She had discovered that he had planned with composed steadiness that misleading impressions should be given to servants and village people.  When the Brents returned to the vicarage, she had observed, with terror, that for some reason they stiffened, and looked askance when the Ffolliotts were mentioned.

“I am afraid, Lady Anstruthers, that Mr. Ffolliott was a great mistake,” Mrs. Brent said once.

Lady Anstruthers had not dared to ask any questions.  She had felt the awkward colour rising in her face and had known that she looked guilty.  But if she had protested against the injustice of the remark, Sir Nigel would have heard of her words before the day had passed, and she shuddered to think of the result.  He had by that time reached the point of referring to Ffolliott with sneering lightness, as “Your lover.”

“Do you defend your lover to me,” he had said on one occasion, when she had entered a timid protest.  And her white face and wild helpless eyes had been such evidence as to the effect the word had produced, that he had seen the expediency of making a point of using it.

The blood beat in Betty Vanderpoel’s veins.

“Rosy,” she said, looking steadily in the faded face, “tell me this.  Did you never think of getting away from him, of going somewhere, and trying to reach father, by cable, or letter, by some means?”

Lady Anstruthers’ weary and wrinkled little smile was a pitiably illuminating thing.

“My dear” she said, “if you are strong and beautiful and rich and well dressed, so that people care to look at you, and listen to what you say, you can do things.  But who, in England, will listen to a shabby, dowdy, frightened woman, when she runs away from her husband, if he follows her and tells people she is hysterical or mad or bad?  It is the shabby, dowdy woman who is in the wrong.  At first, I thought of nothing else but trying to get away.  And once I went to Stornham station.  I walked all the way, on a hot day.  And just as I was getting into a third-class carriage, Nigel marched in and caught my arm, and held me back.  I fainted and when I came to myself I was in the carriage, being driven back to the Court, and he was sitting opposite to me.  He said, ’You fool!  It would take a cleverer woman than you to carry that out.’  And I knew it was the awful truth.”