"—That ye love one another," he exclaimed with happy triumph. Her eyes sank. For that instant her instinct told her that she could not touch him—that he had passed beyond her reach. But, behind their lids, her eyes were bright with a bitter resentment.
"Do you love Sigrid Fersen, Tris? People said you did——"
He came slowly back—down to the level, arid country where he was to live his life. He stared down into her white face. "Do you, Tris?"
He caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were sullen and unhappy. Their unhappiness shattered his anger, changing it to a burning remorse and pity.
"You're my wife. There can be no other woman for me but you. That's my little fragment of morality. Isn't that enough?"
"You stand up for her——" she persisted, with a sudden break in her hard voice. She put up her hands, clinging to him. "Oh, Tris, you make me afraid——" she cried miserably. "I couldn't bear to lose you——"
He held her with a desperate tenderness. He had groped his way to the source of her outburst, and the dawning knowledge threw a pitiless light into his own heart. All the antagonism had gone. In the moment's revulsion he saw her as justified.
"If it was because I loved her, I shouldn't fight for her," he said hoarsely. "Don't you understand—it's not only her—it's Barclay, too—it's everyone. I'd trample on every feeling I had for your sake—but not on my religion—don't you understand?" He knew she could not, that the word "religion" had rung like blasphemy in her ears. But she leant against him, crying wearily like a tired child.
"And this is our home-coming, Tris!"
"It makes a mockery of all my promises!" he answered sadly. "What shall I do to make you happy again, little Anne?"