And yet, strangely enough, with all the horror that his wife's confession
had raised in him there was mingled, against his will, the strangest fear
for her. She had lived with him during all these years, he had been her
guard, protector, husband.
Her immortal soul now was lost unless in some way he could save it for
her. And it was he who should save it. She had suddenly a new poignant
importance for him that she had never had before. Her danger was as deadly
and as imminent to him as though she had been in peril from wild beasts.
In peril? But she had fallen. He could not save her. Nothing that he could
do now could prevent her sin. At that realisation utter despair seized
him; he moaned aloud, shutting out the light from his eyes with his hands.
There followed then wild disbelief; what she had told him was untrue, she
had said it to anger him, to spite him. He sprang from his chair and moved
towards the door. He would find her and tell her that he knew that she had
been lying to him, that he did not believe----
Mid-way he stopped. He knew that she had spoken the truth, that last
moment when they had looked at one another had been compounded, built up,
of truth.
Pages:
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595