But she hadn't regretted it. That assurance,
bequeathed to him in the very hush of death, was of massive importance.
Nothing else mattered--she had been happy with him. At last, forgetful
of the ending, he had brought her freedom from a life not different
from a long dreary servitude. He would need to recall this, to remind
himself of it, often in the years that would leadenly follow; for he
must be regarded as a murderer--the man who, betraying William Grove,
had debauched and killed his wife.
That, of course, was false; but what in the world that would judge,
condemn, him wasn't? He had his memories, Savina's words. A sharper
sense of deprivation stabbed at him. Why, she was gone; Savina was
dead. Her arms would never again go around his neck. The marks of the
mules across her narrow feet! He put out a shaking hand, and Daniel
Randon met it, enveloped it, in a steady grasp that braced him against
the lurching of the wagon.
* * * * *
On the veranda of Daniel Randon's house Lee sat pondering over his
brother's emphatic disconnected sentences. "This conventionality, that
you have been so severe with, is exceedingly useful. It's not too much
to say indispensable. Under its cover a certain limited freedom is
occasionally possible. And where women are concerned--" he evidently
didn't think it necessary even to find words there.
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