that. I
won't work on her sympathy. I've promised to be true to what's deepest
and truest in us both. I have been, by God! and I will be. If our
married life has been worth anything, it's because we've both been free
and honest . . . true with one another. This is her ordeal. She must act
for herself. Better die than use my strength to force her against her
own nature. If I decide . . . no matter how sure I am I'm right . . . it
won't be her decision. Nothing would be decided. I must go on just as
before . . ." he groaned, "that will take all the strength I have."

It was clear to him now; the only endurable future for them, such as
they were to each other, would come from Marise's acting with her own
strength on her own decision. By all that was sacred, he would never by
word or act hamper that decision. He would be himself, honestly. Marise
ought to know what that self was.

He had thought that this resolve would bring to him another of these
terrible racking instants of anguish, but instead there came almost a
calm upon him, as though the pain had passed and left him in peace, or
as though a quiet light had shone out in the darkness. Perhaps the dawn
had come. No, the square of the window was still only faintly felt in
the blacker mass of the silent room.

Then he knew why the pain had left him. It had been driven away by the
certainty that there was a worse fear than any he knew, or ever would
know. No matter what risk or catastrophe lay before them, Marise would
never look at him out her clear eyes and act a thing that was not true.
Marise would always be Marise. Why then, whatever came he could bear it.

Life might be cruel and pitiless, but it was not base, when it had among
its gifts such a certainty as that, rock-like under his feet, bearing
him up in his pain.

He moved to her in the bed, felt for her hand and put it gently to his
lips.

Then, holding it in his, on his breast, he turned his eyes towards the
window, waiting for the dawn.

CHAPTER XIX

MR. WELLES LIGHTS THE FUSE

July 2.

That early morning talk with Mr. Welles had left Marise trembling with
helpless sorrow and exasperation. She sat on the bench where he had left
her, and felt the nervous tears stinging her eyes. When she looked up
and saw Vincent Marsh was standing there, extremely pale, as visibly
shaken as she, as visibly little in control of himself, she burst out,
"So you too know. He has just told me that he is really