and by his
own weakness, tore them to fragments. But the hints and aspersions they
contained, remained imprinted on his mind. In this case, Madeleine's
distracting appearance had enfeebled his memory, and he worked long and
patiently until the sheet lay fitted together again before him. When he
knew its contents by heart, he struck some matches, and watched the
pieces curl and blacken.

Then he left the house.

Her room was in darkness. He stretched himself on the sofa to wait for
her return.

The words of the letter danced like a writing of fire before him; he
lay there and re-read them; but without anger. What they stated might
be true, also it might not; he would never know. For these letters,
which he was ashamed of himself for opening, and still more for
remembering, had not been mentioned between them, but were added to
that category of things they now tacitly agreed to avoid. In his heart,
he knew that he cherished the present state of uncertainty; it was a
twilight state, without crudities or sharp outlines; and it was still
possible to drift and dream in it. Whereas if another terrible
certainty, like the last, descended on him, he would be forced to
marshal his energies, and to suffer afresh. It was better not to know.
As long as definite knowledge failed him, he could give her the benefit
of the doubt. And whether what the letters affirmed was true or not,
hours came when she still belonged wholly to him. Whatever happened on
her absences from him, as soon as the four walls of the room shut them
in again, she was his; and each time she returned, a burning gratitude
for the reprieve filled him anew.

But there was also another reason why he did not breathe a word to her
of his suspicions, and that was the slow dread that was laming him--the
dread of her contempt. She made no further attempt to drape it; and he
had learned to writhe before it, to cringe and go softly. Weeks had
passed now, since the night on which he had made his last stand against
her weeks of increasing torture. Just at first, incredible as it had
seemed, his horrible treatment of her had brought about a slackening of
the tension between them. The worst that could happen had happened, and
he had survived it: he had not put an end either to himself or to her.
On the contrary, he had accepted the fact--as he now saw that he would
accept every fact concerning her, whether for good or evil. And matters
having reached this point, a kind of l