As though answering some question he had put to himself, Erskine said: “Letters, I suppose.” Gwenda did not answer.
“I never wrote her many — two, perhaps three. She said she had destroyed them — but women never do destroy letters, do they? And so they came into your hands.
And you want to know.-” “I want to know more about her. I was — very fond of her. Although I was such a small child when — she went away.” “She went away?” “Didn’t you know?” His eyes, candid and surprised, met hers.
“I’ve no news other,” he said, “since — since that summer in Dillmouth.” “Then you don’t know where she is now?” “How should I? It’s years ago — years.
All finished and done with. Forgotten.” “Forgotten?” He smiled rather bitterly.
“No, perhaps not forgotten…. You’re very perceptive, Mrs. Reed. But tell me about her. She’s not — dead, is she?” A small cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilled their necks and passed.
“I don’t know if she is dead or not,” said Gwenda. “I don’t know anything about her. I thought perhaps you might know Vs She went on as he shook his head: “You see, she went away from Dillmouth that summer. Quite suddenly one evening.
Without telling anyone. And she never came back.” “And you thought I might have heard from her?” “Yes.” He shook his head.
“No. Never a word. But surely her brother — doctor chap — lives in Dillmouth.
He must know. Or is he dead too?” “No, he’s alive. But he doesn’t know either. You see—they all thought she went away — with somebody.” He turned his head to look at her. Deep sorrowful eyes.
“They thought she went away with me?59 “Well, it was a possibility.” “Was it a possibility? I don’t think so.
It was never that. Or were we fools — conscientious fools who passed up our chance of happiness?” Gwenda did not speak. Again Erskine turned his head and looked at her.
“Perhaps you’d better hear about it.
There isn’t really very much to hear. But I wouldn’t like you to misjudge Helen.
We met on a boat going out to India. One of the children had been ill, and my wife was following on the next boat. Helen was going out to marry a man in the Woods and Forests or something of that kind. She didn’t love him. He was just an old friend, nice and kind, and she wanted to get away from home where she wasn’t happy. We fell in love.” He paused.
“Always a bald kind of statement. But it wasn’t — I want to make that quite clear —just the usual shipboard love-affair. It was serious. We were both—well— shattered by it. And there wasn’t anything to be done. I couldn’t let Janet and the children down. Helen saw it the same way as I did. If it had been only Janet — but there were the boys. It was all hopeless.
We agreed to say good-bye and try and forget.” He laughed, a short mirthless laugh.
‘Forget? I never forgot — not for one moment. Life was just a living Hell. I couldn’t stop thinking about Helen.
“Well, she didn’t marry the chap she had been going out to marry. At the last moment, she just couldn’t face it. She went home to England and on the way home she met this other man—your father, I suppose. She wrote to me a couple of months later telling me what she had done.
He was very unhappy over the loss of his wife, she said, and there was a child. She thought that she could make him happy and that it was the best thing to do. She wrote from Dillmouth. About eight months later my father died and I came into this place. I sent in my papers and came back to England. We wanted a few weeks’ holiday until we could get into this house.
My wife suggested Dillmouth. Some friend had mentioned it as a pretty place and quiet. She didn’t know, of course, about Helen. Can you imagine the temptation?
To see her again. To see what this man she had married was like.” There was a short silence, then Erskine said: “We came and stayed at the Royal Clarence. It was a mistake. Seeing Helen again was Hell…. She seemed happy enough, on the whole — I don’t know. She avoided being alone with me…. I didn’t know whether she cared still, or whether she didn’t…. Perhaps she’d got over it.