ell forward, he did not see the tears that stood in
my eyes. I knew that he had lied.

From that day I began to think with a purpose. I had already gained
sufficient mastery over myself, sufficient calm and strength of
spirit to be able to do so.

I can hardly call it a struggle that followed. I copied out and laid
under my pillow the words of the covenant we had made the day after
our betrothal; daily I read it through, and recognised how we had
failed towards each other, and towards our best beliefs.

We had both failed; but, whereas he had erred merely, I knew that I
had sinned; in the fulness of my remorse, my only thought was now to
offer reparation. Nor was it only for Gabriel's sake that I was now
possessed by the desire of atonement. In the blindness of human
passion, I had sinned against my better self, my noblest purposes,
my most firm and high beliefs; that passion conquered, I determined
to make amends for my great transgression by following, regardless
of pain and danger, the highest path that lay within the range of my
vision, regardless of pain to myself, regardless of that fear of the
world which so often leads us to accept its canons, even in sight of
a nobler righteousness.

Therefore I resolved to set him free; I believed this to be
possible, although my sight was clear, my spirit calm. But he who
beholds only the aerial pathway of an ideal right may stumble and
fall on the stones of the world. It was only given me later to
realise, through grief too terrible for words, that, given the world
as the world is, there are wrongs that are irrevocable, lies that,
once lied, no truth can ever wipe away.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, health returned to me. We stayed at Pisa until I was
convalescent, then moved to the sea. His poem and my thoughts
occupied us severally; they were good and peaceful days. Now and
again the heart rebelled against the severity of the spirit, but,
take it all in all, a great calm was upon me.

One evening in September, Gabriel and I were leaning out of my
window; it was almost dark; the occasional footfall of a passenger
fell on the stones of our quiet street; some men were singing in the
trattoria round the corner; we two leant there in silence, counting
the stars as they came.

"Gabriel," said I, "I have had a letter from Constance. I am afraid
she is not very happy at Graysmill; her mother worries her; she
sounds lonely and not over well. Shall