Mary Josephine would not betray him.
He repeated it, not as a conviction, but to fight back and hold down
another thought that persisted in forcing itself upon him. And this
thing, that at times was like a voice within him, cried out in its
moments of life, "She hates you--and she WILL tell where you are going!"
With each hour it was harder for him to keep that voice down; it
persisted, it grew stronger; in its intervals of triumph it rose over
and submerged all other thoughts in him. It was not his fear of her
betrayal that stabbed him; it was the underlying motive of it, the
hatred that would inspire it. He tried not to vision her as he had seen
her last, in the big chair, crushed, shamed, outraged--seeing in him no
longer the beloved brother, but an impostor, a criminal, a man whom she
might suspect of killing that brother for his name and his place in
life. But the thing forced itself on him. It was reasonable, and it was
justice.
"But she won't do it," he told himself. "She won't do it."
This was his fight, and its winning meant more to him than freedom. It
was Mary Josephine who would live with him now, and not Conniston. It
was her spirit that would abide with him, her voice he would hear in
the whispers of the night, her face he would see in the glow of his
lonely fires, and she must remain with him always as the Mary Josephine
he had known.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228