CHAPTER XXX
In later years, one at least of the two men never glanced back upon the months which followed without a shudder. And yet outwardly no change took place in their relations, unless they seemed drawn closer. Such a secret being shared between two people must either separate or bind them together. In this case it became a bond. They spoke of it but little, yet each was well aware that the other remembered often. Sometimes, when they sat together, Latimer recognised in Baird’s eyes a look of brooding and felt that he knew what his thought was; sometimes Baird, glancing at his friend, found his face darkened by reverie, and understood. Once, when this was the case, he said, suddenly:
“What is your feeling about—the man? Do you wish to kill him?”
“It is too late,” Latimer answered. “It would undo nothing. If by doing it I could bring her back as she was before she had seen his face—if I could see her again, the pretty, happy child, with eyes like blue convolvulus, and laughing lips—I would kill him and gladly hang for it.”
“So would I,” said Baird, grimly.
“To crucify him would not undo it,” said Latimer, looking sickly pale. “She was crucified—she lived through terror and shame; she died—afraid that God would not forgive her.”
“That God would not——!” Baird gasped.
Latimer’s bony hands were twisted together.
“We were brought up to believe things like that,” he said. “I was afraid, too. That was the damnable part of it. I could not help her. I have changed since then—I have changed through knowing you. As children we had always been threatened with the just God! The most successful preachers gained their power by painting pictures of the torments of hell. That was the fashion then,” smiling horribly.
“It is a wonderful thing that even the fashion in Gods changes. When we were shut up together in the cabin on the hillside, she used to be overwhelmed by paroxysms of fear. She read the Bible a great deal—because sinners who wanted to repent always read it—and sometimes she would come upon threats and curses, and cry out and turn white and begin to shiver. Then she would beg me to pray and pray with her. And we would kneel down on the bare floor and pray together. My prayers were worse than useless. What could I say? I was a black sinner, too—a man who was perjuring his soul with lies—and they were told and acted for her sake, and she knew it. She used to cling about my neck and beg me to betray her—to whiten my soul by confession—not to allow her wickedness to destroy me—because she loved me—loved me. ‘Go back to them and tell them, Lucien,’ she would cry, ‘I will go with you if I ought—I have been wicked—not you—I have been shameful; I must bear it—I must bear it.’ But she could not bear it. She died.”