in order to keep himself under
restraint. He was acting all the time. James asked himself what madness
blinded Mary that she did not see? He remembered how easily speech had
come in the old days when they were boy and girl together; they could
pass hours side by side, without a thought of time, talking of little
insignificant things, silent often, and always happy. But now he racked
his brain for topics of conversation, and the slightest pause seemed
irksome and unnatural. He was sometimes bored to death, savagely,
cruelly; so that he was obliged to leave Mary for fear that he would say
bitter and horrible things. Without his books he would have gone mad.
She must be blind not to see. Then he thought of their married life. How
long would it last? The years stretched themselves out endlessly,
passing one after another in dreary monotony. Could they possibly be
happy? Sooner or later Mary would learn how little he cared for her, and
what agony must she suffer then! But it was inevitable. Now, whatever
happened, he could not draw back; it was too late for explanations.
Would love come? He felt it impossible; he felt, rather, that the
physical repulsion which vainly he tried to crush would increase till he
abhorred the very sight of his wife.

Passionately he cried out against Fate because he had escaped death so
often. The gods played with him as a cat plays with a mouse. He had been
through dangers innumerable; twice he had lain on the very threshold of
eternal night, and twice he had been snatched back. Far rather would he
have died the soldier's death, gallantly, than live on to this
humiliation and despair. A friendly bullet could have saved him many
difficulties and much unhappiness. And why had he recovered from the
fever? What an irony it was that Mary should claim gratitude for doing
him the greatest possible disservice!

"I can't help it," he cried; "I loathe her!"

The strain upon him was becoming intolerable. James felt that he could
not much longer conceal the anguish which was destroying him. But what
was to be done? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!

James held his head in his hands, cursing his pitiful weakness. Why did
he not realise, in his convalescence, that it was but a passing emotion
which endeared Mary to him? He had been so anxious to love her, so eager
to give happiness to all concerned, that he had welcomed the least sign
of affection; but he knew what love was, and there could be no excuse.
He shou