I passed the church this afternoon. Your collie dog barked at me. So I
knew you were inside. But a saddled horse was tied up beside the gate.
So some one else was with you, and not any one from the village. Then I
got you to play, and that told me who it was who rode the horse."
"Yes," said Ethne, vaguely. She had barely listened to his words. "Yes,
I see." Then in a definite voice, which showed that she had regained all
her self-control, she said:--
"You went away to Wiesbaden for a year. You went away just after Captain
Willoughby came. Was that the reason why you went away?"
"I went because neither you nor I could have kept up the game of
pretences we were playing. You were pretending that you had no thought
for Harry Feversham, that you hardly cared whether he was alive or dead.
I was pretending not to have found out that beyond everything in the
world you cared for him. Some day or other we should have failed, each
one in turn. I dared not fail, nor dared you. I could not let you, who
had said 'Two lives must not be spoilt because of me,' live through a
year thinking that two lives had been spoilt. You on your side dared not
let me, who had said 'Marriage between a blind man and a woman is only
possible when there is more than friendship on both sides,' know that
upon one side there was only friendship, and we were so near to failing.
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