At the bottom of his
soul he resented her treatment of him, and despised himself for
submitting to it. But the old habit had become a tyranny not to be
broken. Where else could he go for talk, for intimacy, for rest? And for
all his disillusion there were still at her command occasional
felicities of manner and strains of feeling--ethereally delicate and
spiritual, like a stanza from the _Christian Year_--that moved him and
pleased his taste as nothing else had power to move and please; steeped,
as they were, in a far-off magic of youth and memory.
So he stayed by her, and she knew very well that he would stay by her to
the end.
He sat down beside her and took her hand.
"You are tired."
"It has been a miserable day."
"Shall I read to you? It would be wise, I think, to put it out of your
mind for a while, and come back to it fresh."
"It will be difficult to attend." Her smile was faint and sad. "But I
will do my best."
He took up a volume of Dean Church's sermons, and began to read.
Presently, as always, his subtler self became conscious of the irony of
the situation. He was endeavoring to soothe her trouble by applying to
it some of the noblest religious thought of our day, expressed in the
noblest language.
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