stood before her mirror, with hands clasped, in all the fervour of a vow; but from that moment her faith in Bothwell Grahame knew no wavering.
* * * * *
In an age when infidelity and scorn of religious ceremonial is very common among young men, Bothwell Grahame had always been steadfast to the Church, and to the good old-fashioned habits in which he had been brought up by his aunt. He was not a zealot, or an enthusiast; but he attended the services of his church with a fair regularity, and had a proper respect for the rector of his parish. Even in India, where men are apt to be less orthodox than at home, Bothwell had always been known as a good Churchman.
For the last year it had been his custom to receive the sacrament on the first Sunday of the month. He had risen early, and had walked across the dewy fields to the old parish church, and had knelt among the people who knew him, and had felt himself all the better for that mystic office, even when things were going far from well with him. There was much that was blameworthy in his life; yet he had not felt himself too base a creature to kneel among his fellow-sinners at the altar of the Sinner’s Friend.
It was a shock, therefore, to receive a letter from the Rector on the last day of August, requesting him to absent himself from the communion service on the following Sunday, lest his presence before that altar should be a scandal to the other communicants.
* * * * *
“God forbid that I should condemn any man unheard,” wrote the Rector; “but you can hardly be unaware of the terrible scandal attaching to your name. You have not come to me, as I hoped you would come, to explain the conduct which has given rise to that scandal. You have taken no step to set yourself right before your fellow-men. Can you wonder that your own silence has been in somewise your condemnation? My duty to my flock compels me to warn you that, until you have taken some steps to free your character from the shadow that now darkens it, you must not approach the altar of your parish church.
“If you will come to me, and open your heart to me, as the sinner should to his priest, I may be able to counsel and to help you. If you can clear yourself to me, I will be your advocate with your fellow-parishioners.——Always your friend,
“JOHN MONKHOUSE.”
* * * * *
“He did wisely to write,” said Bothwell, crushing the letter in his clenched fist. “If he had spoken such words as those to me, I believe I should have knocked him down, priest though he is.”
He answered the Rector’s letter within an hour after receiving it.
* * * * *
“I have nothing to confess,” he wrote, “and that is why I have not gone to your confessional. The difficulties and perplexities of my life are such as could only be understood by a man of my own age and surroundings. They would be darker than Sanscrit to clerical gray hairs.
“Because I did not choose to answer questions which I could not answer without betraying the confidence of a friend, my wise fellow-parishioners have agreed to suspect me of murdering a girl whose face I never saw till after her death.
“I shall attend to receive the sacrament at the eight-o’clock service next Sunday, and I dare you to refuse to administer it.——I have the honour to be, yours, &c. BOTHWELL GRAHAME.”
* * * * *
He walked to Bodmin and delivered his letter at the Rectory door. He would not run the risk of an hour’s delay. On his way home he overtook Hilda, near the gates of The Spaniards. She was very pale when they met, and she grew still paler as they shook hands.
After a word or two of greeting, they walked on side by side in silence.
“I wonder that you can consent to be seen with me,” said Bothwell presently, after a farmer’s wife had driven past them on her way from market. “You must have heard by this time what people think about me—your brother foremost among them, I believe, for he has given me the cut direct more than once since the inquest.”
“I am sorry that he should be so ready to believe a lie,” said Hilda, “for I know that this terrible slander is a lie.”
“God bless you for those straight, strong words, Hilda!” exclaimed Bothwell fervently. “Yes, it is a lie. I am not a good man. I have taken one false step in my life, and the consequences of that mistake have been very heavy upon me. But I am not capable of the kind of wickedness which my Bodmin friends put down to me. I have not risen to the sublimer heights of crime. I am not up to throwing a fellow-creature out of a railway-carriage.”
“Why did you not answer that man’s questions at the inquest?” asked Hilda urgently, forgetting that she had hardly the right to demand his confidence. “That refusal of yours is the cause of all this misery. It seems such a foolish, obstinate act on your part.”
“I daresay it does. But I could not do more or less than I did. To have answered that inquisitive cur’s prying questions categorically would have been to injure a lady. As a man of honour, I was bound to run all risks rather than do that.”
“I begin to understand,” said Hilda, blushing crimson.
Why had she not guessed his secret long before this? she asked herself. The mystery that surrounded him was the mystery of some fatal love-affair. She was only a secondary person in his life. There was another who had been more to him than she, Hilda, could ever be-another to whom he was bound, for whom he was willing to sacrifice his own character. She felt a jealous pang at the mere thought of that unknown one.
“No, you can never understand,” exclaimed Bothwell passionately. “You can never imagine the misery of a man who has bound himself by a fatal tie which chains him to one woman, long after his heart has gone out to another. I gave away my liberty while I was in India, Hilda: pledged myself to one who could give me but little in return for my faith and devotion. I dare not tell you the circumstances of that bondage—the fatality which led to that accursed engagement. I am desperate enough to break the tie, now that it is too late, now that I dare not offer myself to the girl I love, now that my name is blasted for ever. Yes, for ever. I know these narrow-minded rustics, and that to the end of my life I shall in their sight bear the brand of Cain. Here is a fine example of liberal feeling, Hilda.”
He handed her the Rector’s letter, crumpled in his angry grasp.
She read it slowly, tears welling up to her eyes as she read. How hardly the world was using this poor Bothwell! and the harder he was used the more she loved him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I shall kneel before the altar of my God, as I have knelt before.”
“There will at least be one communicant there who will not shrink from you,” said Hilda softly. “We will kneel side by side, if you like.”
“God bless you, my darling. God help me to clear my name from this foul stain which fools have cast upon it; and then a day may come when you and I may kneel before that altar, side by side, and I may be thrice blest in winning you for my wife.”
There was a brief silence before Hilda murmured, “You have told me that you are bound to another.”
“Yes, and I have told you that I will break through that bondage.”
“Can you do so with honour?”
“Yes.
