She had been fashioned to be his helpmate, as surely as if she had been made of the same bone.  Nature was at one with God.  Spirit and body both yearned for him.  It was not position—­power for herself that she craved.  The marriage market—­if that had been her desire:  it had always been open to her.  She had the gold that buys these things.  Wealth, ambition:  they had been offered to her—­spread out temptingly before her eyes.  They were always within her means, if ever she chose to purchase them.  It was this man alone to whom she had ever felt drawn—­this man of the people, with that suggestion about him of something primitive, untamed, causing her always in his presence that faint, compelling thrill of fear, who stirred her blood as none of the polished men of her own class had ever done.  His kind, strong, ugly face:  it moved beside her:  its fearless, tender eyes now pleading, now commanding.

He needed her.  She heard his passionate, low voice, as she had heard it in the little garden above Meudon:  “Because you won’t be there; and without you I can do nothing.”  What right had this poor, worn-out shadow to stand between them, to the end?  Had love and life no claims, but only weakness?  She had taken all, had given nothing.  It was but reparation she was making.  Why stop her?

She was alone in a maze of narrow, silent streets that ended always in a high blank wall.  It seemed impossible to get away from this blank wall.  Whatever way she turned she was always coming back to it.

What was she to do?  Drag the woman back to life against her will—­lead her back to him to be a chain about his feet until the end?  Then leave him to fight the battle alone?

And herself?  All her world had been watching and would know.  She had counted her chickens before they were dead.  She had set her cap at the man, reckoning him already widowed; and his wife had come to life and snatched it from her head.  She could hear the laughter—­the half amused, half contemptuous pity for her “rotten bad luck.”  She would be their standing jest, till she was forgotten.

What would life leave to her?  A lonely lodging and a pot of ink that she would come to hate the smell of.  She could never marry.  It would be but her body that she could give to any other man.  Not even for the sake of her dreams could she bring herself to that.  It might have been possible before, but not now.  She could have won the victory over herself, but for hope, that had kindled the smouldering embers of her passion into flame.  What cunning devil had flung open this door, showing her all her heart’s desire, merely that she should be called upon to slam it to in her own face?

A fierce anger blazed up in her brain.  Why should she listen?  Why had reason been given to us if we were not to use it—­weigh good and evil in the balance and decide for ourselves where lay the nobler gain?  Were we to be led hither and thither like blind children?  What was right—­what wrong, but what our own God-given judgment told us?  Was it wrong of the woman to perform this act of self-renunciation, yielding up all things to love?  No, it was great—­heroic of her.  It would be her cross of victory, her crown.