der that she might
fall, had brought Androvsky to her in order that her religion, her
Catholic faith, might be made hideous to her for ever. She trembled all
over as she knelt. Her life had been sad, even tormented. And she had
set out upon a pilgrimage to find peace. She had been led to Beni-Mora.
She remembered her arrival in Africa, its spell descending upon her,
her sensation of being far off, of having left her former life with its
sorrows for ever. She remembered the entrancing quiet of Count Anteoni's
garden, how as she entered it she seemed to be entering an earthly
Paradise, a place prepared by God for one who was weary as she was
weary, for one who longed to be renewed as she longed to be renewed.
And in that Paradise, in the inmost recess of it, she had put her hands
against Androvsky's temples and given her life, her fate, her heart into
his keeping. That was why the garden was there, that she might be led to
commit this frightful action in it. Her soul felt physically sick. As
to her body--but just then she scarcely thought of the body. For she was
thinking of her soul as of a body, as if it were the core of the body
blackened, sullied, destroyed for ever. She was hot with shame, she was
hot with a fiery indignation. Always, since she was a child, if she
were suddenly touched by anyone whom she did not love, she had had an
inclination to strike a blow on the one who touched her. Now it was as
if an unclean hand had been laid on her soul. And the soul quivered with
longing to strike back.

Again she thought of Beni-Mora, of all that had taken place there. She
realised that during her stay there a crescendo of calm had taken place
within her, calm of the spirit, a crescendo of strength, spiritual
strength, a crescendo of faith and of hope. The religion which had
almost seemed to be slipping from her she had grasped firmly again. Her
soul had arrived in Beni-Mora an invalid and had become a convalescent.

It had been reclining wearily, fretfully. In Beni-Mora it had stood up,
walked, sung as the morning stars sang together. But then--why? If this
was to be the end--why--why?

And at this question she paused, as before a great portal that was shut.
She went back. She thought again of this beautiful crescendo, of this
gradual approach to the God from whom she had been if not entirely
separated at any rate set a little apart. Could it have been only in
order that her catastrophe might be the more complete, her