The man who had killed her did not so much read this letter as absorb it, let it sink home into his heart and carry its own conviction there.
It was not curiosity that moved him, not doubt that made him ask Darrin quietly: “How got you this?”
“From Semler,” Darrin told him. “I found him—followed him half across the country—told him what I guessed. That was the only letter he ever had from her. Written the day you killed her. Damn you, do you see!”
“How came they together?”
“He knew she liked to come to the spring; he found her there, argued with her. She told him she loved you; there was no moving her. She loved you, who killed her. You devil of a man!”
Evered folded the letter carefully and put it into his coat. “Why do you tell me?” he asked.
“Because I know you cared for her!” Darrin cried. “Because I know this will hurt you worse than death itself.”
Evered standing very still shook his head slowly. “That was not my meaning,” he explained patiently. “That is my concern. Why did you tell me? Why so much trouble for this? How did the matter touch you, Darrin?”
The younger man had waited for this moment, waited for it through the years of his manhood. He had planned toward it for months past, shaping it to his fancy. He had looked forward to it as a moment of triumph; he had seen himself towering in just condemnation above one who trembled before him. He had been drunk with this anticipation.
But the reality was not like his dreams. He knew that Evered was broken; that his soul must be shattered. Yet he could not exult. There was such a strength of honest sorrow in the old man before him, there was so much dignity and power that Darrin in spite of himself was shamed and shaken. He felt something that was like regret. He felt himself mean and small; like a malicious, mud-slinging, inconsiderable fragment of a man. His voice was low, it was almost apologetic when he answered the other’s question.