“Yes, indeed. And you, Philip--he will torture you no longer. No more letters, no more presents, no more messages----” “I'll do it--I'll do it to-morrow,” he said. She opened her arms wide, and cried, “Kiss me, Philip, kiss me. We shall live again. Yes, we shall laugh together still--kiss me, kiss me.” “Not yet--when I come back.” “Very well--when you come back.” She sank into a chair, crying with joy, and he went out as he had entered, noiselessly, stealthily, like a shadow. When a man who is not a criminal is given over to a deep duplicity of life, he will clutch at any lie, wearing the mask of truth, which seems to shield him from shame and pain. He may be a wise man in every other relation, a shrewd man, a far-seeing and even a cunning man, but in this relation--that of his own honour, his own fame, his own safety--he is certain to be a blunderer, a bungler, and a fool. Such is the revenge of Nature, such is God's own vengeance! XVII. Philip was walking from Ballure House to Elm Cottage. It was late, and the night was dark and silent--a muggy, dank, and stagnant night, without wind or air, moon or stars. The road was quiet, the trees were still, the sea made only a far-off murmur. And as he walked he struggled to persuade himself that in what he was about to do he would be doing well. “It will not be wrong to deceive him,” he thought. “It will only be for his own good. The suspense would kill him. He would waste away. The sap of the man's soul would dry up. Then why should I hesitate? Besides, it is partly true--true in its own sense, and that is the real sense. She _is_ dead--dead to him. She can never return to him; she is lost to him for ever. So it is true after all--it is true.” “It is a lie,” said a voice at his ear. He started. He could have been sure that somebody had spoken. Yet there was nobody by his side. He was alone in the road. “It must have been my own voice,” he thought. “I must have been thinking aloud.” And then he resumed his walk and his meditation. “And if it is a lie, is it therefore a crime?” he asked himself. “Sure it is--how very sure!--it was a wise man that said so--a great fault once committed is the first link in a chain. The other links seem to be crimes also, but they are not--they are consequences. _Our_ fault was long ago, and even then it was partly the fault of Fate. If the past could be recalled we could not act differently unless our fates were different. And what has followed has been only the consequence. It was the consequence when Kate was married to Pete; it was the consequence when she left him--and _this_ is the consequence.” “It is a lie,” said the same voice by his side. He stopped. The darkness was gross around him--he could see nothing. “Who's there?” he demanded.