And as Jerrold's soul had once stirred in the warm darkness under the first stinging of remorse, so now it pushed and struggled to be born; all his will fought against the darkness to deliver his soul. His soul knew that Anne saved it. If her will had been weaker his would not have been so strong. At this moment an unscrupulous Anne might have damned him to the sensual hell by clinging to his pity. He would have sinned because he was sorry for her. But Anne's will refused his pity. When he showed it she was angry. Yet it was there, waiting for her always, against her will. One day in October (Maisie's illness lasting on into the autumn) they had gone out into the garden to breathe the cold, clean air while Maisie slept. "Jerrold," she said, suddenly, "do you think she knows?" "No. I'm certain she doesn't." "I'm not. I've an awful feeling that she knows and that's why she doesn't get better." "I don't think so. If she knew she'd have said something or done something." "She mightn't. She mightn't do anything. Perhaps she's just being angelically good to us." "She _is_ angelically good. But she doesn't know. You forget her illness began before there _was_ anything to know. It isn't the sort of thing she'd think of. If somebody told her she wouldn't believe it. She trusts us absolutely.... That's bad enough, Anne, without her knowing." "Yes. It's bad enough. It's worse, really." "I know it is.... Anne--I'm awfully sorry to have let you in for all this misery." "You mustn't be sorry. You haven't let me in for it. Nobody could have known it would have happened. It wouldn't, if Maisie had been different. We wouldn't have bothered then. Nothing would have mattered. Think how gloriously happy we were. All my life all my happiness has come through you or because of you. We'd be happy still if it wasn't for Maisie." "I don't see how we're to go on like this. I can't stand it when you're not happy. And nothing makes any difference, really. I want you so awfully all the time." "That's one of the things we mustn't say to each other." "I know we mustn't. Only I didn't want you to think I didn't." "I don't think it. I know you'll care for me as long as you live. Only you mustn't say so. You mustn't be sorry for me. It makes me feel all weak and soft when I want to be strong and hard." "You _are_ strong, Anne." "So are you. I shouldn't love you if you weren't. But we mustn't make it too hard for each other. You know what'll happen if we do?" "What? You mean we'd crumple up and give in?" "No. But we couldn't ever see each other alone again. Never see each other again at all, perhaps. I'd have to go away." "You shan't have to. I swear I won't say another word." "Sometimes I think it would be easier for you if I went." "It wouldn't. It would be simply damnable. You can't go, Anne. That _would_ make Maisie think." iii