Now the impulse was manifest in
Claude, in this revulsion against his own failure, in this marred and
broken vision of a Something to which he had not been true. And as for
Thor....

But here she was tortured and frightened. Who knew what this strange
inheritance might be working in him? Who could tell how big and tender
and transcending it might become? That it would be transcending and
tender and big was certain. If poor, frivolous, futile Claude could feel
like this, could feel that he must redeem his soul though "any damn
thing that liked" should happen as the price of his redemption, in Thor
the yearning would outflank her range. Might not the secret of secrets
be in that? Might not that which she had been seeing as treachery to
herself be no more than a conflict of aspirations? If Claude, with his
blurred distortion of the divine in him, served no other purpose, he at
least threw a light on Thor. Thor, too, was a Masterman. Thor, too, was
born to the vision--to the longing after the nationally perfect that had
become legendary since the time of the great-grandfather--to the sweet,
neighborly affection that ran through all the tales of that man's
son--to the sturdy righteousness of Uncle Sim--to the standards of honor
from which poor Claude had fallen as angels fall--and to God only knew
what high promptings strangled and vitiated in his father. Thor was heir
to it all, with something of his own to boot, something strong,
something patient, something laborious and loyal, something
long-suffering and winning and meek, that might have marked the leader
of a rebellious people or a pagan, skeptic Christ.

Her mind was so full of this ideal of the man against whom--and also for
whom--her heart was hot that she made no effort to detain Claude when,
after long silence, he picked up his hat and slipped away into the
darkness.

CHAPTER XXXI

He slipped away into the darkness, but only to do what he had done on
the previous evening after making arrangements with old Maggs. He
climbed the hill north of the pond, not so much in the hope of seeing
Rosie or any one else, as to haunt the scenes so closely associated with
his spiritual downfall.

It was a languorous, luscious night, with the scent of new-mown hay
mingling with that of gardens. If there was any breeze it was lightly
from the east, bringing that mitigation of the heat traditional to the
week following Independence Day. As there was no moon, the stars