Part of his thought was easy to divine. It would be common to any man in his situation—the hurt pride, jealous pain, misgiving, unhappiness, but beyond these was an unknown quantity, the product of his own peculiar individuality. His keen intellect had already analyzed the cause of her shame. He was rough, crude, unpolished! Any man might also have reached that conclusion. It was in the synthesis, the upbuilding of thought from that conclusion, that he branched from the common. He was humble enough in acknowledging his defects. Yet his natural wit showed him that humility would not serve in these premises. Forgiveness for the crime against his personality would not remove the cause of the offence. Far-sighted, he saw down the vista of years his and her love slowly dying of the same similar offences and causes. That, at least, should never be! He had reached a decision before she came creeping out in her night-dress.
"Aren't you coming to bed, dear?"
He sensed the remorse, sorrow, pity in her voice, but these were not the feelings to move his resolution. Pity! It is the anodyne, the peaceful end of love. Rising, he stretched his great arms and turned towards the stables.
"Where are you going?" she called, sharply, under the urge of sudden fear.
"To turn in on the hay."
She ran and caught his arm, and turned her pale face up to his. "Why? I have made our bed on the couch. Won't you come in?"
"No!"
"Why?" she reiterated. "Oh, why?"
"Because it is shame to live together when love has fled."
She clasped his arm with both hands. "Oh, don't say that! How can you say it? Who says I do not love you?"