If I had not turned from him I should have committed some act of violence. It was thought of Ellen alone that restrained me, that enabled me to regain my self-command. He struck at her, not at me, and well did he know his power. When I was living with Barbara, I believed that suffering had reached its limit; I was to learn that I was mistaken. Hitherto I had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. And her babe—my own dear child! To allow passion to master me would have been unpardonable.
"Are you cooler, John?" asked Maxwell.
"In God's name," I cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me."
"In God's name, I will. I regret to say, I am suffering from the old complaint, John. Misfortune pursues me, and if I don't have a couple of hundred pounds——"
I would hear no more. I went with him to a public-house, and wrote a cheque for the amount.
"You are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "Upon my soul, if you had a better knowledge of me you would find I am not such a bad fellow, after all; but when needs must, John, the devil drives."
That night I told Ellen that we must remove from Swanage.
"I shall be very sorry, John, dear," she said. "Is it really necessary?"
"It is imperative, Ellen."
She sighed. "We have been so happy here."