Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he
painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in
a mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for him
stood next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out into the
garden and went down to the further end, hiding himself behind the
shrubs. Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by
hearing an instrumental piece begin.
Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for his
unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he considered to be
his duty. He recalled with an effort all Madge's charms, mental and
bodily, and he tried to break his heart for her. He was in anguish
because he found that in order to feel as he ought to feel some
effort was necessary; that treason to her was possible, and because
he had looked with such eyes upon his cousin that evening. He saw
himself as something separate from himself, and although he knew what
he saw to be flimsy and shallow, he could do nothing to deepen it,
absolutely nothing! It was not the betrayal of that thunderstorm
which now tormented him. He could have represented that as a failure
to be surmounted; he could have repented it. It was his own inner
being from which he revolted, from limitations which are worse than
crimes, for who, by taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature?