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So nobody knew what she knew, except the spirit that stood by her in the night. She waited, and the book drew slowly towards its climax and its close. As Berrand grew more excited about it he spoke more of it to Catherine. But Mark conscious of that veil dropped between him and his wife scarcely mentioned it to her, and declined to read any passages from it aloud.
He had become more dangerous. And Catherine had developed also. Circumstance spoken of by Berrand had changed, twisted into a different shape by dying hands, twisted again by the hands all unconscious of that man who talked downstairs, of Berrand. Was he, too, an agent of Fate, at which he scornfully laughed? Why not?
Ardagh, striking her thin hand excitedly on the table. "That book turned the scale. She went down. Tell him of her, Mr. Berrand, tell him of the ruin of that poor child. It may influence him." "I'm afraid not," said Berrand, with a glance at Mark. "William Foster is an artist." "It is terrible that he should be permitted to work such evil," said Mrs. Ardagh.
He spoke very quietly and gently, then changed the subject, talked of the coming summer, the garden, prospective pleasures. But he talked no more of his work. Next day he shut himself up in his study, and thenceforward his life became a repetition of his life during the previous summer. A fortnight later Frederic Berrand arrived.
Berrand did not leave them until the new book was nearly finished. As he pressed Catherine's hand in farewell he said, "You will have a sensational autumn, Mrs. Sirrett." "Sensational. Why?" she asked. "London will ring with William Foster's name. My word how the Journalists will curse! They protect the morality of the nation you know on paper." He was gone.
Ardagh's desire might accomplish its fulfilment. Only Berrand was undismayed. There was a devil of mischief in him. His eyes of a toad gleamed as he said, turning to Mrs. Ardagh, "I happen to know that 'William Foster' is writing another book at this very time." Catherine bent her eyes on her plate. She was tingling with nervous excitement. "Do you know him, then?" said Mrs.
"But you are one-sided, Mr. Berrand." "I!" he cried. "How so?" "You see only the horrible in life, even in love. You care only for the horrible in art." "The truth is more often horrible than not," he answered. "We dress it in pink paper as we dress a burning lamp. We fear its light will hurt our weak eyes.
Catherine, dominated by her fixed idea that God would intervene in some strange and abrupt way to interrupt the activities of Mark, spoke of Fate as something inevitably ordained, certain as the rising of the sun or the dropping down of the darkness. Berrand laughed. "There is no Fate," he said. "There is man, there is woman. Man and woman make circumstance.
Ardagh, in her fervid, and yet dreary, voice. "Slightly." "Then tell him of the dreadful harm he has done." "What harm?" Mrs. Ardagh spoke of Jenny Levita. It seemed that she had now fallen into an evil way of life. "But why should you attribute the folly of a weak girl to William Foster's influence?" said Berrand. "Her soul was trembling in the balance," said Mrs.
Berrand came to tell Catherine. He was radiant. While he spoke he never noticed that she closed her hands tightly as one who prepares to face an enemy. "We are going to London this afternoon," he added. "Mark must see his publisher." "He is taking up the manuscript?" said Catherine hastily. "No, no. There are one or two finishing touches to be put. But he must arrange about the date of publishing.
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