The voice had changed again, had become sharp, almost cutting. Like the lash of a whip it fell upon him. And he stopped at once. It seemed to him as if she had cried out, “If you dare to give me your pity I shall kill you!”
And he felt as if just then, for such a reason, she would be capable of such an action.
“I will not—” He almost faltered. “I am not—coming.”
Never before had he been so completely dominated by any person, or by any fate, or by anything at all.
There was again a silence. Then he said:
“You are strong. I know you will be strong now. You can’t go against your nature. I ought to have realized that as I have not realized it. I ought to have trusted to your strength long ago.”
If he had known how weak she felt while she listened to him, how her whole being was secretly entreating to be supported, to be taken hold of tenderly, and guarded and cared for like a child! But he was a man. And at one moment he understood her and at another he did not.
“Gaspare and I—we wished to spare you. And perhaps I wished to spare myself. I think I did. I am sure I did. I am sure that was partly my reason. I was secretly ashamed of my cowardice, my weakness in Africa; and when I knew—no, when I guessed, for it was only that—what my appeal to you had caused—all it had caused—”
He paused. He was thinking of Maurice’s death, which must have been a murder, which he was certain had been a murder.
“I hadn’t—”