And together with the hatred and the fear, there was a pitiful sneaking admiration.  He looked so grand and unruffled—­so old, and yet sitting the skittish, high-mettled horse so firmly; so feeble, and yet full of such an absolute confidence in his power to rule and subordinate, accustomed for forty years to the unfailing subjection of such things as servants, horses, and women.  Her heart bumped against her stays, and her face became red and then white, when she thought that he intended to stop at the post office and ask for her.  But he rode on—­gave one glance up toward the windows from which she shrank still further, and rode by, right down the street, with the horse swishing its long tail and seeming to dance in a light amble.

Then, as soon as he disappeared, the spell was broken.

In all that she had confessed to her husband she had been sincere; but hers was a simple and easy going nature, and exaltation could not be long sustained.  After excitement she returned rapidly to a passive and unimaginative level; and now, quietly brooding, she could not do otherwise than justify herself for all that had happened.

At the end of everything she felt a deep-seated conviction that she was in truth blameless.  She was not a bad woman.  Therefore it would be wicked to treat her as a sinner and an outcast.  Sinners did wrong because they enjoyed the sin; but she had never been vicious, or even selfishly anxious for pleasure.  Pleasure!  She had never cared for that sort of thing.  Girls of her own age used to talk to her about it, and what they said was almost incomprehensible.  She had never had such feelings, however faintly.

No, her only fault had been in giving way to the people who had charge of her, and who were too strong to be resisted.  Just at first she had been flattered and pleased when Mr. Barradine had begun to take notice of her—­patting her, and holding her hand, and saying he admired her hair; but she had not in the least known where all this was leading.  What she told Will was substantially correct as to the beginning—­but of course her eyes had been opened before anything definite occurred.  Then she had told Auntie that she was afraid; and then it was that Auntie ought to have saved her, and didn’t.  Far from it.  Auntie, who in early days had been severe enough, now became all smiles, treating her deferentially, saying:  “If you play your cards properly you’ll set us all up as large as towers.  Don’t lose your head.  For goodness’ sake, don’t be wild and foolish, and go offending him so that instead of coming back again he’ll look elsewhere.”

Then later, when she had, as it were, sacrificed herself on the family altar, she was indignant at finding that he had nevertheless looked elsewhere.  There were others—­and she said she would never forgive him.  Yet she did forgive him.  Finally, there came the outrage of his stopping at the Cottage with somebody else.  Her aunt had sent her out of the way, but she heard of it; and this time she determined to be done with Mr. Barradine.  And yet again she forgave him.