He hesitated markedly:
“Well, then, have Saunders with you in the room,” he said, “or just outside the door.”
She looked up at him for a moment, her blue eyes wide.
“Oh, that!” she said. “You don’t need to have the least fear for me. Don’t you understand—if he is mad, what it is that has driven him mad?”
He looked down upon her with a deep tenderness.
“I suppose it’s the shock,” he said.
“Oh no,” she answered. “It isn’t that; it’s his feeling for me. Haven’t you heard him say a hundred times: ‘Poor little woman! she’s had such a beastly time!’ Don’t you understand? The quality of his love for me was his desire to protect me. It’s funny, isn’t it?—funny enough to make you cry. He thought I’d had such a bad time that it was up to him to keep every kind of trouble from me. He’s done something—with Etta Hudson. Well, and ever since he’s been dreading that it should get to my ears—and me in mourning for dear mother, and he alone and dreading—oh, dreading. And not a soul to speak to....”
Again she looked up into Grimshaw’s eyes—and he was filled with an intolerable pity. She smiled, quaintly and bravely.
“You see,” she said, “he was not afraid of what I should do but of what I should feel. I woke up and found him crying one night. Funny, isn’t it? that anyone should cry—about me. But I suppose he was feeling all that he thought I should feel. He was identifying himself with me. And now he’s like that, and I don’t feel anything more about it. But,” she added, “that ought to satisfy you that I’m quite safe.”
“Ah,” he said, “but so often—these strong passions take exactly the opposite turn. Do have Saunders handy.”