She told of Philip's dying confession. She delicately and graphically told of the broken life—after he, John, had passed out of it—and they, who remained, bravely wound the tangled ends into a noble whole.
Dale followed her words as if the story were of another—and of a life he had never shared.
"Philip wanted you to have all—everything—of which his weakness had deprived you!"
Dale started.
"Oh! Yes," he said vaguely; "I see. Well, I can understand that. But Ruth—not even God could accomplish that miracle. In all such cases it has to be what a man himself can get out of the wreck. It has to be other things. New things—or he is—damned."
It was the word more than the thought that caused the shudder in the crouching woman.
"You have never forgiven us," she whispered.
"Yes, I have, Ruth. When I got to a place, cleansed by suffering, where I could forgive myself—everything else was easy."
"Oh! John, why could you not have trusted me with your—your brave secret?"
Why, indeed? John Dale could not have told; he only knew he had never paused to consider when it came to telling Joyce Lauzoon. The thought gripped him hard.