MICH. I won’t—only how strange it all is!
AUDR. What?
MICH. (quiet, calm voice throughout, smiling a little). How men try to make their religion square with their practice! I was hard, cruelly hard, on that poor little girl of Andrew’s. I was sure it was for the good of her soul that she should stand up and confess in public. But now it comes to my own self, I make excuses; I hide, and cloak, and equivocate, and lie—what a hypocrite I am!
AUDR. Ah, you’re sorry!
MICH. No, I’m strangely happy and—dazed. I feel nothing, except my great joy, and a curious bitter amusement in tracing it all out.
AUDR. Tracing what out?
MICH. The hundred little chances, accidents as we call them, that gave us to each other. Everything I did to avoid you threw me at your feet. I felt myself beginning to love you. I wrote urgently to Uncle Ned in Italy, thinking I’d tell him and that he would save me. He came—I couldn’t tell him of you, but his coming kept Withycombe from getting your telegram. I went to Saint Decuman’s to escape from you. You were moved to come to me. I sent away my own boat to put the sea between us; and so I imprisoned you with me. Six years ago I used all my influence to have the new lighthouse built on Saint Margaret’s Isle instead of Saint Decuman’s, so that I might keep Saint Decuman’s lonely for myself and prayer. I kept it lonely for myself and you. It was what we call a chance I didn’t go to Saint Margaret’s with Andrew and my uncle. It was what we call a chance that you telegraphed to my boatman instead of your own. If any one thing had gone differently——
AUDR. (shaking her head). We couldn’t have missed each other in this world. It’s no use blaming chance or fate, or whatever it is.
MICH. I blame nothing. I am too happy. Besides, Chance? Fate? I had the mastery of all these things. They couldn’t have conquered me if my own heart hadn’t first yielded. You mustn’t stay here. (Turning towards her with great tenderness.) Oh, I’m glad that no stain rests upon you through me——