“Nearly as helpless as a clergyman,” said Arthur.

“Almost,” replied the visitor.  “No, there is no more satisfaction in any of those things, for him, than if he were all a clergyman is supposed to be.  There is none even in saying this, to you, here, now, and I’m not here to say it.  Neither am I here to vindicate myself—­no, nor yet Isabel—­with professions or arguments to you; I might as well argue with a forest fire.”

“Quite as well.  What are you here for?”

“Be patient and I’ll tell you; I’m trying to be so with you.”

“You—­trying”—­

“Stop that nonsense, Arthur.  Ah me, Arthur Winslow, I have no wish to humiliate you.  Through the loyalty of your wife’s pure heart, whatever humiliates you must humiliate her.  Oh, I could wish her in her shroud and coffin rather than have her suffer the humiliation you have prepared for yourself and for her through you.”

Arthur showed a thrill of alarm.  “Do you propose to go down to public shame and drag us all with you?”

“No, nor to let you, if I can prevent you.  Arthur, you have allowed a base jealousy to persuade you, in the face of every contrary evidence, that your fair young wife has lost her loyalty—­and your nearest friend the commonest honesty—­in a clandestine love.  Under the goadings of that passion you have foully guessed, have heartlessly accused, have brazenly lied.  Isabel has confessed nothing to you, and I know by your lies to me how pusillanimously you must have been lying to her.  Had your guess been right, I should not have known you were only guessing, and your successful iniquity would have remained hidden from everybody but yourself—­I still do you the honor to believe you would have realized it.  Now the vital question is, do you realize it, and will you undo it?”

Arthur was deadly pale; his pointing finger trembled.  “Leave”—­he choked—­“leave this house.”

Leonard turned scarlet, but his tone sank low.  “Arthur, I don’t believe your soul is rotten.  If I did, I should not be such a knave or such a fool as to make any treaty with you that would leave you in your pulpit one Sabbath Day.”

“What do you—­what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that such a treaty would be foul faith to everybody.”

“So, then, you do propose one common shipwreck for us all.”

“Quite the contrary.  To trust the fortunes of our loved ones to any treaty with a rotten soul would indeed be to launch them upon a stormy sea in a rotten boat.  But I do not believe your soul is so.  I believe it is sound,—­still sound, though on fire; and so, to help you quench its burning, I give you my pledge to be from this day a stranger to your sweet wife.  And now will you do something for me, to prove that your soul is sound and is going to stay sound?  It shall be the least I can ask in good faith to the world we live in.”

“What is it?” asked Arthur.  There was no capitulation in his face or his voice.