a bit--before God he would. But it would ruin his chance of first-class
places if he married yet. The gentry wouldn't take any but single men
of his age. A wife would stand in his way. And she didn't want to stand
in his way--he knew her better than that. Not but that he reckoned her
just as much his wife as any woman could be. Of course he did. What a
silly she was to trouble about it. And then when there was no hiding
any longer how it was with her, he up and awayed to London, saying he
would make a home for her there. And he kept on writing for a bit, but
he never told her where to write to him in return, so she couldn't
answer. And then his letters came seldom, and then stopped altogether,
and then--and then----"

The girl was rebuked for her much speaking, and so wasting the time of
the court. There were other cases. And Richard Calmady sickened yet
more, recognising in that a parable of perpetual application. For are
there not always other cases? The tragedy of the individual life
reaching its climax seems, to the chief actor, worthy to claim and hold
universal attention. Yet the sun never stands still in heaven, nor do
the footsteps of men tarry upon earth. No one person may take up too
much space, too much time. The movement of things is not stayed. The
single cry, however bitter, is drowned in the roar of the pushing
crowd. The individual, however keen his griefs, however heinous the
offense done him, must make way for those same other cases. This is the
everlasting law.

And so pained, out of tune, troubled too by smouldering fires of anger,
Richard left Westchurch and his fellow-magistrates as early as he
decently could. Avoiding the highroad leading by Newlands and through
Sandyfield village, he cut across country by field lanes and over waste
lands to Farley Row. The wide quiet of the autumn afternoon, the slight
chill in the air, were grateful to him after the noise and close
atmosphere of the court. Yet the young man strove vainly to think of
pleasant things and to regain his serenity. The girl's tear-blotted
face, the tones of her voice, haunted him. Six weeks' imprisonment. The
sentence, after all, was a light one. Yet who was he, who were those
four other well-to-do gentlemen, that they should judge her at all? How
could they measure the strength of the temptation which had beset her?
If temptation is strong enough, must not the tempted of necessity
yield? If the tempted does not yield, is that not