The past was dead, and neither Hilary nor Sarah Jane, as they walked together at the edge of the winter sea, sought or thought upon its grave. Far otherwise, she found that in the light of his new opinions he could now bitterly mourn the past. On a grey day, when a slight shore wind smoothed the water and the sea was almost of the same colour as the gulls that floated upon it, the man and woman sat under shelter of a red cliff, talked together, and watched Sarah Jane's child gathering cowry shells upon the beach.
"How your husband rejoices in his God! Have you marked it, Sarah Jane? Such a trust and such a great, live gratitude underlying his scrupulous obedience."
"Well he may be grateful."
"I'm only a child in knowledge of the divine idea. He's got far beyond that. And yet—sometimes—I wonder what would happen to his religion—and to us—if he knew."
"I don't wonder. I know what would happen. He might be sorry after—when 'twas too late—but while the storm was raging in his heart, God's self wouldn't hold him."
"I understand."
"And I wouldn't blame him neither. Think—the solid earth giving way under his feet. 'Twould be no less to him."
"It's very awful—considered in that manner. I hope you're wrong."
"The sea would be weak and the rocks would be soft compared to him."
"You've never felt he ought to know?"