A kind of sombre power, indeed—­the power of the poet and the dreamer—­seemed to have spoken from Cliffe’s strange wooing.  He had taken no particular pains to flatter her, or to conceal his original hesitation.  He put her own action in a hard, almost a brutal light.  It was plain that he thought she had treated her husband badly; that he warned her of a future of treachery and remorse.  At the same time he let her see that he could not doubt but that she would face it.  They still had the last justifying cards in their hands—­passion, and the courage to go where passion leads.  When those were played, they might look each other and the world in the face.  Till then they were but triflers—­mean souls—­fit neither for heaven nor for hell.

Ashe’s whole being was soon in a tumult of rage under the sting of this report, as he was able to piece it out from Kitty.  But he kept his self-command, and by dint of it he presently arrived at some notion of her own share in the scene.  Horror, recoil, disavowal—­a wild resentment of the charges heaped upon her, of the pitiless interpretation of her behavior which broke from those harsh lips, of the incredulity passing into something like contempt with which Cliffe had endured her wrath and received her protestations—­then a blind flight through the fields to the little wayside station, where she hoped to catch the last train; the arrival and departure of the train while she was still half a mile from the line, and her shelter at a cottage for the night; these things stood out plainly, whatever else remained in obscurity.  How far she had provoked her own fate, and how far even now she was delivered from the morbid spell of Cliffe’s personality, Ashe would not allow himself to ask.  As she neared the end of her story, it was as though the great tempest wave in which she had been struggling died down, and with a merciful rush bore him to a shore of deliverance.  She was there beside him; and she was still his own.

He had been leaning over the side of a chair, his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed upon her, while she told her tale.  It ended in a burst of self-pity, as she remembered her collapse in the cottage, the impossibility of finding any carriage in the small hamlet of which it made part, the faint weariness of the night—­

“I never slept,” she said, piteously.  “I got up at eight for the first train, and now I feel”—­she fell back in her chair, and whispered desolately with shut eyes—­“as if I should like to die!”

Ashe knelt down beside her.

“It’s my fault, too, Kitty.  I ought to have held you with a stronger hand.  I hated quarrelling with you.  But—­oh, my dear, my dear—­”

She met the cry in silence, the tears running over her cheeks.  Roughly, impetuously, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her, as though he would once more re-knit and reconsecrate the bond between them.  She lay passively against him, the tangle of her fair hair spread over his shoulder—­too frail and too exhausted for response.