“It’s a pity.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry for me. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me.”
I felt a great surge of emotion then because he was lying. Of course it did bother him.
I said: “Do you think we should talk? We might frighten the ghost away.”
“Don’t you think he—or she—has done his—or her—haunting for the night?”
“I don’t know how he or she works. Let’s wait awhile…quietly.”
He took my arm and we went into the shelter of the ruined walls. An almost unbearable excitement had taken possession of me. I leaned against the cold damp wall and looked up at his profile. It appeared stern, sharply defined in the half light—tortured and sad; and my emotion was so mixed that I could not altogether understand it. I only knew that I would never forget his face as I saw it on this night and that the longing to help him was something as intense as my love for Pietro had been. Perhaps there was something of the same nature in my feelings—the longing to care for, to protect against the world.
I wanted so much for the person who was playing the tricks to come into that enclosure; I wanted us to lay hands on that person, to expose him as the ghost, to put an end to this attempt to keep open an old wound.
I wanted to see Napier settled in Lovat Stacy, doing work which was so suited to him. I wanted to see him happy.
He looked down at me suddenly and said in a whisper: “I believe you are sorry for me.”
I could not answer him because my emotion threatened to choke me.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why?”
“Hush,” I said. “The ghost will hear and keep away. Don’t forget we want to catch him.”
“I want to know why you’re sorry for me even more than to discover the ghost.”
“It was so unfair,” I said. “Everything was unfair. One accident and your life…shattered.”
“You put it too strongly,” he said.
“No,” I answered firmly. “They were so cruel to blame you…to send you away from your home.”
“Everyone is not as tenderhearted as you are.”
I laughed. I had stopped thinking of catching the ghost. It seemed to me too that it was more important that we should understand each other.
“You were so young.”
“Seventeen is not young really. I was old enough to kill…therefore old enough to be dealt with accordingly.”
“Please don’t talk of it if it upsets you.”
“Why shouldn’t I be upset? I ended his life didn’t I? There he was…magnificently alive and then…dead. And here am I alive and having had thirteen years of life which has been denied him. And you say I shouldn’t be upset.”
“It was an accident. Can’t you get that into your head? Can’t anyone?”
“How vehement you are. The counsel for the defense!”
“How flippant you are. But you don’t deceive me. It’s because you feel it so deeply now.”
“I am very happy to have you speak so vehemently in my defense. So some good comes out of evil.”
We were standing side by side and suddenly he took my hand.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I wish I could deserve your thanks.”
“I should not have given them if I had not considered them deserved.”
“I don’t see what I have done.”
His face was close to mine and he said: “You are here.”
I said uneasily: “Perhaps we should go in. The ghosts won’t come back having heard us talking.”
“It’s rarely now that I have an opportunity of talking to you.”
“Yes…it has changed since Edith…went.”
“So much. You are full of doubts. How could it be otherwise? But at least they are doubts. You do not stand in judgment. Nor will you until you have proved your suspicions to be true.”
“Don’t think that of me. I loathe people who judge others. How can they know every little detail which led up to disaster…and it is the details which are often of so much importance.”
“I think of you often,” he said. “In fact…all the time.”
I was silent and he went on: “There is so much between us. You know, don’t you, that it is believed by many people that I disposed of Edith. I’m not surprised. I soon realized how hopeless it was—and so did she. I knew of course that she was in love with the curate and I suppose I despised her for allowing herself to be forced into marriage with me—as I despised myself. But I tried to make something of our marriage—quite wrongly of course. I tried to make her into the sort of woman I could admire. Her meekness irritated me…her timidity, her fears. There is no excuse. My conduct was despicable. But you know what kind of man I am. Not very admirable, I fear. Why am I trying to explain?”
“I understand.”
“And do you understand too that I don’t want you to be involved…now?”
“How could I be?” I asked sharply.
“People tarnish with their thoughts…their evil whisperings. I have to prove to you, don’t I—and to the world—that I had nothing to do with Edith’s disappearance…at least directly.”
“You mean that indirectly you may be responsible?”
“I fear that’s obvious. The poor child—for that was what she was—was afraid of me. Everyone was aware of this. So…I am branded Edith’s murderer.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not, when they’re true? I thought you would be the first to agree with me that it is never wrong to speak the truth. I am telling you why you should spare your pity on my account. You can ask the advice of a number of people and they will all give you the same answer. They will assure you that you waste your pity. And more than that. They will warn you. Think of the case against me. Are you wise to linger in a haunted chapel with me?”
“Please be serious. This is a serious matter.”
“I’m deadly serious. You are in danger. You, my beautiful, poised widow are in acute danger.”
“How and from whom?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
His answer was to turn to me and with a swift movement put his arms about me. He held me tightly against him so that I could feel the beating of his heart and I knew he could feel mine. He put his face against my head. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he did not. He just stood very still holding me, and I remained in his arms, without protest because my one desire was to stay there and it was too strong to be resisted.
At length I said: “This is…unwise.”
Then he laughed bitterly and answered: “That is what I told you. Most unwise. You wanted to know why you are in danger. I told you.”
“And you wish to preserve me from that danger?”
“Oh no. I want to lead you right into it. But I am perverse. I want you to walk straight into it…knowing the danger…seeing the danger…I want you to choose it.”
“Are you talking in riddles?”
“Riddles to which we both know the answer. You could call it that. I will state my intentions which can scarcely be called honorable. Let’s look at the facts. I murdered my brother.”
“I insist on the truth,” I interrupted. “You shot your brother accidentally.”
“…when I was seventeen. My mother killed herself because of it. So there were two deaths at my door.”
“I don’t agree. You can’t be blamed for that.”
“Sweet counsel,” he said. “Sweet vehement counsel for the defense. While I was in Australia I longed to come home…but when I arrived I discovered that what I longed for was no longer there. I had dreamed of my home before the accident. How different it was! I was married. It was after all for this I had come home. My wife was a child…a frightened child who was afraid of me and I don’t blame her. She was in love with someone else. What could I do with such a marriage? No sooner had I made it than I began to wonder whether it would have been better for us all if I had remained on the Station.”