For an hour or two he was powerless to collect his thoughts.  All he had said repeated itself again and again, mixed up with turbid comments, with deadly fears and frantic bursts of confidence, with tumult of passion and merciless logic of self-criticism.  Did Sidwell understand that sentence:  ’I have dared to hope that I shall not always be alone’?  Was it not possible that she might interpret it as referring to some unknown woman whom he loved?  If not, if his voice and features had betrayed him, what could her behaviour mean, except distinct encouragement?  ‘You have interested me very much.’  But could she have used such words if his meaning had been plain to her?  Far more likely that her frank kindness came of misconception.  She imagined him the lover of some girl of his own ’station’—­a toiling governess, or some such person; it could not enter into her mind that he ‘dared’ so recklessly as the truth implied.

But the glow of sympathy with which she heard his immeasurable scorn:  there was the spirit that defies artificial distances.  Why had he not been bolder?  At this rate he must spend a lifetime in preparing for the decisive moment.  When would another such occasion offer itself?

Women are won by audacity; the poets have repeated it from age to age, and some truth there must be in the saying.  Suspicion of self-interest could not but attach to him; that was inherent in the circumstances.  He must rely upon the sincerity of his passion, which indeed was beginning to rack and rend him.  A woman is sensitive to that, especially a woman of Sidwell’s refinement.  In matters of the intellect she may be misled, but she cannot mistake quivering ardour for design simulating love.  If it were impossible to see her again in private before she left Exeter, then he must write to her.  Half a year of complete uncertainty, and of counterfeiting face to face with Bruno Chilvers, would overtax his resolution.

The evening went by he knew not how.  Long after nightfall he was returning from an aimless ramble by way of the Old Tiverton Road.  At least he would pass the house, and soothe or inflame his emotions by resting for a moment thus near to Sidwell.

What?  He had believed himself incapable of erotic madness?  And he pressed his forehead against the stones of the wall to relieve his sick dizziness.

It was Sidwell or death.  Into what a void of hideous futility would his life be cast, if this desire proved vain, and he were left to combat alone with the memory of his dishonour!  With Sidwell the reproach could be outlived.  She would understand him, pardon him—­ and thereafter a glorified existence, rivalling that of whosoever has been most exultant among the sons of men!

Part IV

CHAPTER I