Rosmer. Well, think what it meant—to be perpetually in the clutches of such—agony of mind over a thing that she was not in the slightest degree responsible for—! Are you going to suggest that she was accountable for her actions?
Kroll. Hm!—Do you remember whether at that time you had, in the house any books dealing with the purport of marriage—according to the advanced views of to-day?
Rosmer. I remember Miss West's lending me a work of the kind. She inherited Dr. West's library, you know. But, my dear Kroll, you surely do not suppose that we were so imprudent as to let the poor sick creature get wind of any such ideas? I can solemnly swear that we were in no way to blame. It was the overwrought nerves of her own brain that were responsible for these frantic aberrations.
Kroll. There is one thing, at any rate, that I can tell you now, and that is that your poor tortured and overwrought Beata put an end to her own life in order that yours might be happy—and that you might be free to live as you pleased.
Rosmer (starting half up from his chair). What do you mean by that?
Kroll. You must listen to me quietly, Rosmer—because now I can speak of it. During the last year of her life she came twice to see me, to tell me what she suffered from her fears and her despair.
Rosmer. On that point?
Kroll. No. The first time she came she declared that you were on the high road to apostasy—that you were going to desert the faith that your father had taught you.
Rosmer (eagerly). What you say is impossible, Kroll!—absolutely impossible! You must be wrong about that.
Kroll. Why?