Her small frame heaved and she looked away from me down the drive. "I can only thank God that the child didn't live."
Barbara had told me something of the fear in which she seemed to hold Adrian's memory. But I had not in the least realised it till now when I heard the profession from her own lips. In fact, I know that she had never yet spoken to Barbara with such passionate directness.
"You oughtn't to say such a thing, Doria," I said sternly.
"I am as God made me."
"Adrian loved you. He sinned for your sake—in order to get you."
She dismissed the argument with a gesture.
"You must have pity on him," I insisted, "for the unspeakable torment of those months of barrenness, of abortive attempts at creation."
She was silent for a moment. Having reached the front gates we turned and began to walk up the drive. Then she said:
"Yes, I do pity him. It's enough to tear one's brain out,—his when he was alive—and mine now. The thought of it will freeze my soul for all eternity. I can't tell you what I feel." She cast out her hands imploringly to the autumn fields. "I pity him as I would pity some one remote from me—a criminal whom I might have seen done to death by awful tortures. It's a matter of the brain, not of the heart. No. I have all the understanding. But I can't find the pardon."
"That will come," said I.