He was driven to speak again, and,
against his will, to defend himself.
"I am in a hatefully false position. I ought to have told you long ago all
about it. It seemed impossible at the time, and so from time to time, to
open the shut book. I closed it deliberately, and from the time of doing
it until this moment I have never spoken of it even to myself. Chevenix,
who knew her well, broke it open unawares yesterday, and now we must read
in it, you and I."
He stopped, took breath, and began again. "I don't see how you can forgive
me, or how I can, so to speak, look myself in the face again. I have
played the knave so long with you that it is perhaps the greatest knavery
I can commit to be honest at last. But I am going to do it, Mary. I want
to tell you the whole story. You have told me yours."
Her eyes flickered at that, but she said nothing. Passive as she sat,
heavy in judgment, she was yet keenly interested. All her wits were at
work, commenting, comparing, judging, and weighing every word that he
said.
He told her a strange, incoherent story of poet's love. This mysterious,
shrouded Sanchia figured in it as the goddess of a shrine--omnipresent, a
felt influence, yet never a woman.
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