Pity rushed over the frozen woman in the chair; pity, warm and blinding. “O, the poor child!” she said, “O, the poor child!”
But Lewis swung on her almost angrily. “Don’t pity her,” he said at once. “There’s nothing to pity in such a royal sort of generosity as hers! She and her gift are not to be pitied. Don’t waste pity on—either of us, Guida.”
Meeting her dumb, bewildered look, after a moment he went on, “If I’m sure of anything, in earth or heaven, I’m sure that she gave her life for mine—that she let go her hold on that boat deliberately—to give me a better chance—because she thought mine the more useful life.”
“You can’t be sure, my poor Dick!”
“But I am sure. She was in better case to stick to that boat than I was. She gave me my life—no, lent it!—the divine, unpardonable child. . . She lent it, in her own words, to all the weak things of the world, because I could fight on their side till such deeds as that were done away. I take it so. I believe I am—meant to take it so. It’s not my own life any more. It’s a loan, till the end of justice has been reached—the end we all have fought for, she not less than I. God knows! And when that end’s attained, I think God in His mercy will call in the debt—that He won’t leave me under such a proud, intolerable, burden. . . What a lot we’ve talked about—things—before. And here, I suppose, is the strangest thing of all. Only it doesn’t seem strange to me. Just natural. One didn’t exactly run away from. . . death. . . before, you know. The difference now is only that, when I see it coming, I shall run to meet it.”
She could find no relief in thought or feeling. He sat quite still in his pet chair, the traces of those unashamed tears still on his cheeks, staring at the rug; and as she watched him, she saw a terror opening before her, a gray desolation. The familiar room, the afternoon sunlight in squares on the carpet, the faint rattle of a wind-stirred blind—all the old familiar things were there. But in the half of an hour, the soul of them was changed past any recall of hers.
She tried once, timidly, desperately, “But if she gave it to you. . .”
He answered quickly, “For that! Just for that. I shall have no right to the loan any longer.” He looked at her quietly. And she spoke, answering something his eyes had said rather than his lips.
“I see. And nothing I can say will make you look at it differently. . .”
“No. I don’t think it will, Guida. I’ve had a long time to think things out, you see.”