Blecker said nothing, paced the floor of the room, his head sunk on his breast.
"Let us go out of this," at last. "I'm choked. I think in the free air we will know what is right, better."
She put on her hood, and they went out, the girl drawing back on the steps, lest he should offer to assist her.
"I will not touch you, Grey," he said, gravely, "unless you give me leave."
Somehow, as she followed him down the deserted street, she felt how puny her trouble was, after all, to his. She had time to notice the drops of sweat wrung out on his forehead, and wish she dared to wipe them away; but he strode on in silence, forgetting even her, facing this inscrutable fate that mastered them, with a strong man's desperation. They came to the river, out of sight of the town. She stopped.
"We must wait here. I must stay where I can hear the train coming."
"The train,—yes. You are going in it? Yet, Grey, you love me?"
She wrung her hands with a frightened cry.
"Paul, don't tempt me. I'm weak: you know that. Don't make me fouler than I am. There 's something in the world better for us than love: to try to be pure and true. You'll help me to be that, dear Paul?"—laying her hand on his arm, beseechingly. "You'll not keep me back? It's hard, you know,"—trying to smile, her lips only growing colorless.
"I'll help you, Grey,"—his face distorted, touching her fingers for an instant with an unutterable tenderness. "I knew this man was here from the first. If there was crime in our marriage, I took it on myself. I was not afraid to face hell for you, child. But, Grey," meeting her eye, "I love you. I will not risk your soul for my selfish pleasure. If it be a crime for you to stay with me, I will bid you go, and never attempt to see your face again."