“I knew it.”
“You knew it! How? I never mentioned it to you.”
“No, but I have seen that photograph of her you have treasured, and I saw her that day of the rabbit hunt. Putting those two things together, with something that Mary told Lucy, made me sure that she had once been your wife.”
Clayton was bewildered.
“Something Mary told Lucy?”
“Yes, about your arm; Mrs. Dudley told Mary how you came to have a stiff arm, and though she did not admit that she was the woman who caused it, and Mary did not suspect it then, Lucy did; and she told me about it.”
Clayton stared at the butterfly crawling away through the grass.
“When I heard that Mary had gone with Mrs. Dudley to Denver, I rode over to Sloan Jasper’s to tell him that I feared it was not wise. But, really, I had nothing on which to base a charge, except my suspicions. I knew why I had left her, but nothing more. And my courage failed. I said nothing, and I should have said something. But,” he leaned back wearily against the door, “when you come to love a woman as I loved her, Justin, you will perhaps know how I felt, and why I hesitated. I was weak, because of that love; that is all I can say about it.”
The contempt growing for Clayton in Justin’s heart was swept away. He knew what love, true love, is; the love which believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things; which changes never, though all the world is changed.
“I loved her,” Clayton went on, his deep voice trembling, “and rather than say anything that might not be true I said nothing. I did wrong. And I am punished, for this thing hurts me more than you can know.”