Yet he could not but see that almost every argument she used might be urged with even greater effect upon behalf of Mea, who wrote no letters and made no prayer. Why should Mea’s heart be broken? Why should Mea be left to wander in that lonely wilderness whereof Edith spoke, or perhaps to take to those common courses of despair—Mea, who had never offended, who had always played an angel’s part towards him?
Of course the only answer was that he was married to Edith, and that he was not married to Mea; that he had taken Edith for better or for worse, and that to them applied the ancient saying: “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” He knew well enough in which direction his own feelings lay. Yet, what right had he to thrust her out, his wife, whom he had asked to marry him? On the other hand, what right had he to desert Mea, the woman who had saved and sheltered him?
Rupert was sore perplexed; he could find no answer to these problems. He wrote a note to Edith thanking her for her letter, the contents of which he said he was considering, adding that he was quite well, but she had better still keep away from him for a while. Then he took a sudden resolution. He would go to Mea, and lay the whole matter before her.
Once again they sat in that room in which, after weeks of blindness, he had recovered his sight. His story had been told, the letter had been read, there it lay upon the ground beside them.
“And now, Rupert,” asked Mea quietly, “what shall you do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered passionately. “I have come to ask you.”
She looked at him and asked again: “Which is it that you love, your wife or me?”
“You know well,” he replied. “It is you, and no other woman, you now and for ever. Why do you make me tell you so again?”
“Because I like to hear it, Rupert,” she said, with her slow smile. “But it does not make the choice easier, does it? On the one side, love; on the other your law. Which will win, love or your law?”
“I have come to you to tell me, Mea.”