Then, under the darkness of the trees, and in reaction from the experience he had just passed through, an unhappy man’s hitherto impenetrable reserve, to some extent, broke down.  And the companion walking beside him showed himself a true minister of Christ—–­humble, tactful, delicate, yet with the courage of his message.  What struck him most, perhaps, was the revelation of what must have been Buntingford’s utter loneliness through long years; the spiritual isolation in which a man of singularly responsive and confiding temper had passed perhaps a quarter of his life, except for one blameless friendship with a woman now dead.  His utmost efforts had not been able to discover the wife who had deserted him, or to throw any light upon her subsequent history.  The law, therefore, offered him no redress.  He could not free himself; and he could not marry again.  Yet marriage and fatherhood were his natural destiny, thwarted by the fatal mistake of his early youth.  Nothing remained but to draw a steady veil over the past, and to make what he could of the other elements in life.

Alcott gathered clearly from the story that there had been no other woman or women in the case, since his rupture with his wife.  Was it that his marriage, with all its repulsive episodes, had disgusted a fastidious nature with the coarser aspects of the sex relation?  The best was denied him, and from the worse he himself turned away; though haunted all the time by the natural hunger of the normal man.

As they walked on, Alcott gradually shaped some image for himself of what had happened during the years of the marriage, piecing it together from Buntingford’s agitated talk.  But he was not prepared for a sudden statement made just as they were reaching the spot where Alcott would naturally turn back towards the Rectory.  It came with a burst, after a silence.

“For God’s sake, Alcott, don’t suppose from what I have been telling you that all the fault was on my wife’s side, that I was a mere injured innocent.  Very soon after we married, I discovered that I had ceased to love her, that there was hardly anything in common between us.  And there was a woman in Paris—­a married woman, of my own world—­cultivated, and good, and refined—­who was sorry for me, who made a kind of spiritual home for me.  We very nearly stepped over the edge—­we should have done—­but for her religion.  She was an ardent Catholic and her religion saved her.  She left Paris suddenly, begging me as the last thing she would ever ask me, to be reconciled to Anna, and to forget her.  For some days I intended to shoot myself.  But, at last, as the only thing I could do for her, I did as she bade me.  Anna and I, after a while, came together again, and I hoped for a child.  Then, by hideous ill luck, Anna, about three months after our reconciliation, discovered a fragment of a letter—­believed the very worst—­made a horrible scene with me, and went off, as she has just told me,—­not actually with Rocca as I believed, but to join him in Italy.  From that day I lost all trace of her.  Her concealment of the boy’s birth was her vengeance upon me.  She knew how passionately I had always wanted a son.  But instead she punished him—­the poor, poor babe!”