She put her hand on his. Alas! in spite of reckless wandering and tragedy, and forsaken faith and duty, the touch only thrilled him with his own dreams as of old.
"Listen, Vesty!—just as you used to be my little woman and reason with me. Ugh! how weak I am! I'm not worth saving. It is of little consequence, truly; but, such as it is, it all lies with you. Some time, Vesty—I am speaking of what must be some time, dearest; and remember, it is often done in the world, among those who are highest and richest and socially recognized—well, it is a familiar thing: as soon as it can be well arranged—and that soon, now—my wife and I shall be divorced. We have both wished it, we are unhappy together, it is a wrong for us to live together. She has been untrue enough to me, as I to her, but let that pass; such things are not for your ears to hear, only you need have no qualms. Grace will be more congenially wedded within two months after we are parted.
"And then—Vesty? Well, will you not speak to me? Is it to be life and honor, with your love at last, or despair and death? You were promised to me once. In spite of all, you cannot hold yourself your own; you are mine; the wife God meant for me. O Vesty! let us blot out the confused past with all its mistakes! It is killing me—will kill me body and soul if you leave me now. Let me find my lost home at last: let me rest a little while before I die!"
His weak and gasping breath warned her; she stilled his hands, the low lids hiding the anguish in her eyes.
So there was a way out of it all, easy, luxurious, convenient for the passions! And there was a straight Basin way, a high promise before God and man, that, to the Basin sense, there was no taking back: Vesty could not see upon any other road; she shuddered.
But Notely's wasted, broken life clinging to her!
"That was never done among the Basins, Notely. When we are married we promise, and we hold to it till death. It would never seem to me that I was your wife, but wicked and false to you and her—always that. I would rather die!"
"My Vesty, the Basin is a little, little part of the world, and ignorant of life. I tell you what is right. You used to have faith in me—so much that, if you would, you might still believe in me and my ceaseless love for you. Do you think that I will ever leave you here? My mother wants you and the child: we will be happy together at last, with such quiet or such pleasures as you will. My quarries are turning out wealth for me—it is for you and Gurdon's child. Think of Gurdon's little boy!"
As he spoke, Vesty seemed to see again a pale face with a great light upon it, turning without question to its stern duty.
"Notely, Gurdon gave me up, and the baby that he worshipped; though I clung to him, he put us by, because, though it was hard, it was right—it was the only way. I think it is often so between those two, the right and what we want. I think that love, somehow, in this world seems to be putting by—putting by what we want."