What he
had visioned, the conclusion he had arrived at, seemed
inconceivable, yet what his own eyes had seen and his ears had
heard pointed to the truth of it all. The least he could say was
that St. Pierre's love for Marie-Anne Boulain was a strange sort
of love. His attitude toward her seemed more like that of a man in
the presence of a child of whom he was fond in a fatherly sort of
way. His affection, as he had expressed it, was parental and
careless. Not for an instant had there been in it a betrayal of
the lover, no suggestion of the husband who cared deeply or who
might be made jealous by another man.
Sitting in darkness thickening with the nearer approach of storm,
David recalled the stab of pain mingled with humiliation that had
come into the eyes of St. Pierre's wife when she had stood facing
her husband. He heard again, with a new understanding, the low
note of pathos in her voice as in song she had called upon the
Mother of Christ to hear her--and help her. He had not guessed at
the tragedy of it then. Now he knew, and he thought of her lying
awake in the gloom beyond the bulkhead, her eyes were with tears.
And St. Pierre had gone back to his raft, singing in the night!
Where before there had been sympathy for him, there rose a sincere
revulsion.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245