Yet it was true: if it had not been for him Beatrice would still be alive. Whether she took that train intending to go to him or to Tommy it did not matter; she would not have taken it at all if he had behaved as he should.
He turned his attention back to the picture, gently and carefully smoothing out the cut, as though in the hope that reparation to her effigy would make it easier to face the thought of having compassed her destruction.
Somehow it did no such thing....
Of course what Nemesis wanted was a confession that he loved the woman whose death he was morally responsible for. James realized that himself, almost from the first, but it was not in his nature to admit easily that such an unreasonable change of feeling was possible to him. Long hours of struggle followed, hours of endless pacing, of fruitless internal argument, of blind resistance to the one hope, as he in the bottom of his soul knew it was, of his salvation. Resistance, brave, exhilarating, hopeless, futile, ignoble resistance to whatever happened to him contrary to the dictates of his own will—it was as inevitable to him as feeling itself.
From time to time he thought of Tommy, and this, if he did but know it, was the best symptom he could have shown. For though at first he thought of him with little more than his usual contempt, envy soon began to creep in, then frank jealousy and at last a blind hatred that made him clench his hands and wish, as he had seldom wished anything, that Tommy's throat was between them. In fact he ended by hating Tommy quite as though he were his equal. He never stopped to consider that this change was no less revolutionary than the one he was fighting.
The hopeless hours dragged on. A sense of physical fatigue grew on him; every muscle in him ached. His brain also staggered under the long strain; it hammered and rang. Certain scraps of sentences he had heard during the day buzzed through it with a curious insistence, taking advantage of his weakened state to torment him. A great chance, a great chance—Uncle James' parting words to him. Sorrow was a great chance—for some. For Aunt Selina, yes; for Beatrice, yes; or Uncle James, frozen and unresponsive as he appeared, yes. But not for him. Oh, no, he must admit it, he was not even worthy to suffer greatly. He was not really suffering now, he supposed; he was merely very tired. Otherwise those words, a great chance, a great chance, would not keep pounding through his head like the sound of loud wheels....
Railroad wheels.
Then what was it that Aunt Selina had said about finding out something too late? Oh, yes, people found out they loved other people when it was too late. Especially strong people. He was strong.... Could it be that he was going to discover something too late—that? It was too late for something already, but surely not for that! Just think—Aunt Selina had found out too late, and Beatrice had found out too late, and now....
Yes, if it was horrible it must be true. It was he who was too late. He understood about Aunt Selina, all she must have felt. And Beatrice too; he saw now how strong and noble and warm-hearted she had been, and how she must have suffered. Especially that. And now he had found out it was too late to tell her so!