Alma read this letter again and again in the solitude of her own chamber, and the more she read it the more utterly inscrutable it seemed.
That night Bradley sat alone in his study, a broken and despairing man. Before him on his desk lay a letter just written, in which he formally communicated to the Bishop his resignation of his living, and begged to be superseded as soon as possible. His eyes were red with weeping, his whole aspect was indescribably weary and forlorn. So lost was he in his own miserable thoughts, that he failed to notice a ring at the outer door, and a momentary whispering which followed the opening of the door. In another instant the chamber door opened, and a woman, cloaked and veiled, appeared upon the threshold.
‘Alma!’ he cried, recognising the figure in a moment, and rising to his feet in overmastering agitation.
Without a word she closed the door, and then, lifting her veil to show a face as white as marble, gazed at him with eyes of infinite sorrow and compassion. Meeting the gaze, and trembling before it, he sank again into his chair, and hid his face in his hands.
‘Yes, I have come!’ she said in a low voice; then, without another word, she crossed the room and laid her hand softly upon his shoulder.
Feeling the tender touch, he shivered and sobbed aloud.
‘O, why did you come?’ he cried. ‘You--you--have read my letter?’
‘Yes, Ambrose,’ she answered in the same low, far-away, despairing voice. ‘That is why I came--to comfort you if I could. Look up! speak to me! I can bear everything if I can only be still certain of your love.’
He uncovered his face, and gazed at her in astonishment.
‘I have nothing to forgive,’ she replied mournfully. ‘Can you think that my esteem for you is so slight a thing, so light a straw, that even this cruel wind of evil fortune can blow it away? I know that you have been honourable in word and deed; I know that you are the noblest and the best of men. It is no fault of yours, dear, if God is so hard upon us; no, no, _you_ are not to blame.’
‘But you do not understand! I am a broken man. I must leave this place, and-----’
‘Listen to me,’ she said, interrupting him with that air of gentle mastery which had ever exercised so great a spell upon him, and which gave to her passionate beauty a certain splendour of command. ‘Do you think you are quite just to _me_ when you speak--as you _have_ spoken--of leaving Fensea, and bidding me an eternal farewell? Since this trouble in the church, you have acted as if I had no part and parcel in your life, save that which might come if we were merely married people; you have thought of me as of a woman to whom you were betrothed, not as of a loving friend whom you might trust till death. Do you think that my faith in you is so slight a thing that it cannot survive even the loss of you as a lover, if that must be? Do you not know that I am all yours, to the deepest fibre of my being, that your sorrow is my sorrow, your God my God--even as I said? I am your sister still, even if I am not to be your wife, and whither you go, be sure I shall follow.’