"A man can but try, sir. I shall try. If you talk of an inner conviction, I have that conviction that I shall not try in vain."
Major Edward shaded his eyes with his hand. "God forbid that I should wish the murder of Ludwell Cary unavenged! But—but—shame and sorrow—and Henry Churchill's child"—He rose from his chair and stalked across the room. "I am tired of it all," he said, "tired of the world, life, death, pro and con, affections, hatreds, sweets that cloy, bitterness that does not nourish, the gash of events, and the salt with which memory rubs the wound! Man that is born of woman—Pah!" He straightened himself, flung up his grey head, and moved stiffly to a bookcase. "Where's Gascoigne's Steel Glasse? I know you've got a copy—Ludwell told me so."
"It is on the third shelf, the left side. Major Churchill, you understand that, for all that has been said, I must yet go my way?"
"Yes, Fair, I understand," said the other. "Do what you must—and God help us all!"
CHAPTER XXXIV
FAIRFAX CARY
The December frost lay hard upon the ground, and a pale winter sky gleamed above and between bare limbs of trees. In Vinie Mocket's garden withered and bent stalk showed where had been zinnia and prince's feather, and the grapevine over the porch was but a mass of twisted stems. The sun shone bright, however, on this day, and as there was no wind, it was not hard to imagine it warm out-of-doors and the spring somewhere in keeping. It was the week before Christmas, and the season unwontedly mild.
Vinie, seated upon the doorstep in the sun, a grey shawl around her shoulders and her pink chin in her hand, stared at the Ragged Mountains and wondered when Tom was coming to dinner. A grey cat purred in the sun beside her. Smut the dog, lying in a patch of light upon the porch floor, broke out of a dream, got up, and wagged his tail.
"Who do you hear, Smut?" asked Vinie. "I think it ith Mr. Adam."