He could not bear that silence and that stillness of hers. It seemed as though it would be eternal. And suddenly he saw that she was really suffering, excruciatingly; and he could not bear it, because he loved her. And then all his plans for torturing her, all his desires for vengeance, all his schemes to make her suffer as he had suffered, all the hate of her that he had manufactured in his heart—all was suddenly gone, like worthless dust scoured by the gale. He perceived that they were one in suffering as in guilt—fate's pathetic flotsam, aching to cling together even in the last despairing drift.
He cried, agonisingly: "Clare! Clare! Oh, for God's sake, don't stare at me like that, Clare! Oh, my darling, my dear darling, I'm sorry—sorry—I'm dead with sorrow! Clare—Clare—be kind to me, Clare—kinder than I have been to you or to Helen! ..."
VIII
She said, quietly: "I must get back in time for my train."
"No, no—not yet. Don't go. Don't leave me."
"I must."
"No—no——"
"You know I must. Don't you?"
He became calmer. It was as if she had willed him to become calmer, as if some of the calmness of her was passing over to him. "Clare," he said, eagerly, "Do you think I'm bad—am I—rotten-souled—because of what's happened? Am I damned, do you think?"
She answered softly: "No. You're not. And you mustn't think you are. Don't I love you? Would I love you if you were rotten? Would you love me if I was?"