eness are imposed on--demanded
of--the Christian!--here as everywhere else. Love and forgiveness--<i>not</i>
penalty and hate!"

"There is no question of hate--and--I doubt whether I am a Christian,"
said Ashe, quietly, turning away.

The Dean looked at him a little askance--breathing fast.

"But you are a <i>heart</i>, William!" he said, using the privilege, of his
white hairs, speaking as he might have spoken to the Eton boy of twenty
years before--"ay, and one of the noblest. You gathered that poor thing
into your arms--knowing what were the temptations of her nature, and she
became the mother of your child. Now--alas! those temptations have
conquered her. But she still turns to you--she still clings to you--and
she has no one else. And if you reject her she will go down unforgiven
and despairing to the grave."

For the first time Ashe's lips trembled. But his speech was very quiet
and collected.

"I must try and explain myself," he said. "Why should we talk of
forgiveness? It is not a word that I much understand, or that means much
to men of my type and generation. I see what has happened in this way.
Kitty's conduct last year hit me desperately hard. It destroyed my
private happiness, and but for the generosity of the best friends ever
man had it would have driven me out of public life. I warned her that
the consequences of the Cliffe matter would be irreparable, and she
still carried it through. She left me for that man--and at a time when
by her own action it was impossible for me to defend either her or
myself. What course of action remained to me? I <i>did</i> remember her
temperament, her antecedents, and the certainty that this man, whatever
might be his moments of heroism, was a selfish and incorrigible brute in
his dealings with women. So I wrote to her, through this same consul at
Trieste. I let her know that if she wished it, and if there were any
chance of his marrying her, I would begin divorce proceedings at once.
She had only to say the word. If she did not wish it, I would spare her
and myself the shame and scandal of publicity. And if she left him, I
would make additional provision for her which would insure her every
comfort. She never sent a word of reply, and I have taken no steps. But
as soon as I heard she was at Treviso, I wrote again--or, rather, this
time my lawyers wrote, suggesting that the time had come for the extra
provision I had spoken of, which I was most ready and anxious to ma