But she expected it,
of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had
to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below
which there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had not
loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken
the truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weakness
of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for
Matilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find--lies against
himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even
while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not
clothe--lies against love, against manhood, against God.
"I have loved you long, Veronica," he began. "I had not hoped to see
this day."
The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a
strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he
spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to
deceive all living things to sin.
He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the
shelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the first
sound of his words, wondering and thrilled.
"Is it long? I do not know," he continued. "It is more than a year,
since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in my
life--little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, for
all I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica,
all of it--the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and die
for you, in trust and faith, and love of you.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191