Rosmer. Love. Yes, dear, that is what I mean. Even while Beata was alive, it was you that I gave all my thoughts to. It was you alone I yearned for. It was with you that I experienced peaceful, joyful, passionless happiness. When we consider it rightly, Rebecca, our life together began like the sweet, mysterious love of two children for one another—free from desire or any thought of anything more. Did you not feel it in that way too? Tell me.
Rebecca (struggling with herself). Oh, I do not know what to answer.
Rosmer. And it was this life of intimacy, with one another and for one another, that we took to be friendship. No, dear—the tie between us has been a spiritual marriage—perhaps from the very first day. That is why I am guilty. I had no right to it—no right to it for Beata's sake.
Rebecca. No right to a happy life? Do you believe that, John?
Rosmer. She looked at the relations between us through the eyes of HER love—judged them after the nature of HER love. And it was only natural. She could not have judged them otherwise than she did.
Rebecca. But how can you so accuse yourself for Beata's delusions?
Rosmer. It was for love of me—in her own way that—she threw herself into the mill-race. That fact is certain, Rebecca. I can never get beyond that.
Rebecca. Oh, do not think of anything else but the great, splendid task that you are going to devote your life to!
Rosmer (shaking his head). It can never be carried through. Not by me. Not after what I know now.
Rebecca. Why not by you?