"When the boy began to turn from me, it gnawed more and more," he said. "When I learned that Marianne's friend was openly condemning my conduct to her, it gnawed more and more. For I said to myself, 'If the boy knew the awful thought which is haunting me, if Mrs Stanhope knew it, if they all knew it, what then?' So I kept my secret to myself. I had the sense to know that I was justified in doing that. And I turned to my work and tried to forget. I turned to my work, which had always been a haven when I was able to keep it uninvaded by—by outside influences. It was invaded now. I could not forget. I went as usual to my study and laboratory, and I tried to continue my neglected investigations; but I failed from the first. Time after time I tried. You would scarcely believe how often—and always in vain. For my mind was filled with the one imperious thought from which there was no escape—not even for a moment: Was I guilty of Marianne's death? Time after time I found myself saying aloud, 'Have I killed Marianne, or have I not killed Marianne?'"
Katharine had been leaning forward gazing fixedly into the distance, but she stood up now, and turned to him.
"Don't go on," she said in a stifled voice. "I cannot bear any more."
Then he saw the keen distress on her face.
"Oh," he cried in an agony of remorse, "I have been thinking only of myself—forgive me——"
"No, no, it isn't that," she said. "But you have suffered so much, and you are suffering now in telling me, and I cannot bear it."
"Forgive me, forgive me," he pleaded almost inaudibly. "It was my soul's necessity to tell you—to lay it all before you—so that you might know me and judge me."
"Judge you!" she cried.
And there was a world of love and understanding in her eyes, in her voice, and on her face.
She turned to him with outstretched hands; but as she turned, she saw a vision of Marianne leaning back in the arm-chair, dead, and with that expression of alarm on her poor dead face.