She sank back upon the chair, her face completely hidden within her
arms. Winston, his hand already grasping the latch of the door, paused
and glanced around at her, a sudden revulsion of feeling leaving him
unnerved and purposeless. He had been possessed by but one thought, a
savage determination to seek out Farnham and kill him. The brute was
no more than a mad dog who had bitten one he loved; he was unworthy of
mercy. But now, in a revealing burst of light, he realized the utter
futility of such an act. Coward, brutal as the man unquestionably was,
he yet remained her husband, bound to her by ties she held
indissoluble. Any vengeful blow which should make her a widow would as
certainly separate the slayer from her forever. Unavoidably though it
might occur, the act was one never to be forgiven by Beth Norvell,
never to be blotted from her remembrance. Winston appreciated this as
though a sudden flash-light had been turned upon his soul. He had
looked down into her secret heart, he had had opened before him the
religious depth of her nature--this bright-faced, brown-eyed woman
would do what was right although she walked a pathway of self-denying
agony. Never once did he doubt this truth, and the knowledge gripped
him with fingers of steel. Even as he stood there, looking back upon
her quivering figure, it was no longer hate of Farnham which
controlled; it was love for her. He took a step toward her, hesitant,
uncertain, his heart a-throb with sympathy; yet what could he say?
What could he do? Utterly helpless to comfort, unable to even suggest
a way out, he drew back silently, closed the door behind him, and shut
her in. He felt one clear, unalterable conviction--under God, it
should not be for long.
He stood there in the brilliant sunlight, bareheaded still; looking
dreamily off across the wide reach of the canyon. How peaceful, how
sublimely beautiful, it all appeared; how delicately the tints of those
distant trees blended and harmonized with the brown rocks beyond! The
broad, spreading picture slowly impressed itself upon his brain,
effacing and taking the place of personal animosity. In so fair a
world Hope is ever a returning angel with healing in his wings; and
Winston's face brightened, the black frown deserting his forehead, all
sternness gone from his eyes. There surely must be a way somewhere,
and he would discover it; only the weakling and the coward can sit down
in despair. Out of the prevailing silence he suddenly distinguished
voices at hand, and the sound awoke him to partial interest. Just
before the door where he stood a thick growth of bushes obstructed the
view. The voices he heard indistinctly came from beyond, and he
stepped cautiously forward, peering in curiosity between the parted
branches.