Elsley and Lucia have not yet arrived at that terrible crisis:  though they are on the path toward it,—­the path of little carelessnesses, rudenesses, ungoverned words and tempers, and, worst of all, of that half-confidence, which is certain to avenge itself by irritation and quarrelling; for if two married people will not tell each other in love what they ought, they will be sure to tell each other in anger what they ought not.  It is plain enough already that Elsley has his weak point, which must not be touched; something about “a name,” which Lucia is to be expected to ignore,—­as if anything which really exists could be ignored while two people live together night and day, for better for worse.  Till the thorn is out, the wound will not heal; and till the matter (whatever it may be) is set right, by confession and absolution, there will be no peace for them, for they are living in a lie; and, unless it be a very little one indeed, better, perhaps, that they should go on to that terrible crisis of open defiance.  It may end in disgust, hatred, madness; but it may, too, end in each falling again upon the other’s bosom, and sobbing out through holy tears,—­“Yes, you do know the worst of me, and yet you love me still.  This is happiness, to find oneself most loved when one most hates oneself!  God, help us to confess our sins to Thee, as we have done to each other, and to begin life again like little children, struggling hand in hand out of this lowest pit, up the steep path which leads to life, and strength, and peace.”

Heaven grant that it may so end!  But now Elsley has gone raging out into the raging darkness; trying to prove himself to himself the most injured of men, and to hate his wife as much as possible:  though the fool knows the whole time that he loves her better than anything on earth, even than that “fame,” on which he tries to fatten his lean soul, snapping greedily at every scrap which falls in his way, and, in default, snapping at everybody and everything else.  And little comfort it gives him.  Why should it?  What comfort, save in being wise and strong?  And is he the wiser or stronger for being told by a reviewer that he has written fine words, or has failed in writing them; or to have silly women writing to ask for his autograph, or for leave to set his songs to music?  Nay,—­shocking as the question may seem,—­is he the wiser and stronger man for being a poet at all, and a genius?—­provided, of course, that the word genius is used in its modern meaning, of a person who can say prettier things than his neighbours.  I think not.  Be it as it may, away goes the poor genius; his long cloak, picturesque enough in calm weather, fluttering about uncomfortably enough, while the rain washes his long curls into swabs; out through the old garden, between storm-swept laurels, beneath dark groaning pines, and through a door in the wall which opens into the lane.

The lane leads downward, on the right, into the village.  He is in no temper to meet his fellow-creatures,—­even to see the comfortable gleam through their windows, as the sailors close round the fire with wife and child; so he turns to the left, up the deep stone-banked lane, which leads towards the cliff, dark now as pitch, for it is overhung, right and left, with deep oak-wood.