Yet she had apparently taken him, as women will, for better, for
worse, till death, as trustfully as if he and men generally were as
knowable as A B C, instead of as unknown as the algebraic X. Only once
had she faltered in her trust of him, and then but for a moment. How far
had her love, and the sight of Peter's misery, led her blindly to renew
that trust? And would it hold? She had seen how little people thought of
that scurrilous article, and how the decent papers had passed it over
without a word. But she had also seen, the scandal harped upon by
partisans and noted that Peter failed to vindicate himself publicly, or
vouchsafe an explanation to her. Had she taken Peter with trust or
doubt, knowledge or blindness?
Perhaps a conversation between the two, a week later, will answer these
questions. It occurred on the deck of a vessel. Yet this parting glimpse
of Peter is very different from that which introduced him. The vessel is
not drifting helplessly, but its great screw is whirling it towards the
island of Martinique, as if itself anxious to reach that fairy land of
fairy lands.
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