The two were Adela and Hubert Eldon.  Adela had come to sit for the last time in the green retreat which was painfully dear to her.  Her husband’s absence gave her freedom; she used it to avoid the Rodmans and to talk with herself.  She F was, as we may conjecture, far from looking cheerfully into the future.  Nor was she content with herself, with her behaviour in the drama of these two days.  In thinking over the scene with her husband she experienced a shame before her conscience which could not at first be readily accounted for, for of a truth she had felt no kind of shame in steadfastly resisting Mutimer’s dishonourable impulse.  But she saw now that in the judgment of one who could read all her heart she would not come off with unmingled praise.  Had there not been another motive at work in her besides zeal for honour?  Suppose the man benefiting by the will had been another than Hubert Eldon?  Surely that would not have affected her behaviour?  Not in practice, doubtless; but here was a question of feeling, a scrutiny of the soul’s hidden velleities.  No difference in action, be sure; that must ever be upright But what of the heroism in this particular case?  The difference declared itself; here there had been no heroism whatever.  To strip herself and her husband when a moment’s winking would have kept them well clad?  Yes, but on whose behalf?  Had there not been a positive pleasure in making herself poor that Hubert might be rich?  There was the fatal element in the situation.  She came out of the church palpitating with joy; the first assurance of her husband’s ignominious yielding to temptation filled her with, not mere scorn, but with dread.  Had she not been guilty of mock nobleness in her voice, her bearing?  At the time she did not feel it, for the thought of Hubert was kept altogether in the background.  Yes, but she saw now how it had shed light and warmth upon her; the fact was not to be denied, because her consciousness had not then included it She was shamed.

A pity, is it not?  It were so good to have seen her purely noble, indignant with unmixed righteousness.  But, knowing our Adela’s heart, is it not even sweeter to bear with her?  You will go far before you find virtue in which there is no dear sustaining comfort of self.  For my part, Adela is more to me for the imperfection, infinitely more to me for the confession of it in her own mind.  How can a woman be lovelier than when most womanly, or more precious than when she reflects her own weakness in clarity of soul?

As she made her way through the wood her trouble of conscience was lost in deeper suffering.  The scent of undergrowths, which always brought back to her the glad days of maidenhood, filled her with the hopelessness of the future.  There was no return on the path of life; every step made those memories of happiness more distant and thickened the gloom about her.  She could be strong when it was needful, could face the world as well as any woman who makes a veil of pride for her bleeding heart; but here, amid the sweet wood-perfumes, in silence and secrecy, self-pity caressed her into feebleness.  The light was dimmed by her tears; she rather felt than saw her way.  And thus, with moist eyelashes, she came to her wonted resting-place.  But she found her seat occupied, and by the man whom in this moment she could least bear to meet.