Now she told herself
that she had failed in it, had never been human to him, and had never
treated him in a human way, had not been what a man's wife should be, had
stood always outside, a follower, an admirer, a critic, an accuser, never
simply the woman who was his wife. His fault or hers, or that of both--it
seemed to matter little. The experiment had been hers; and because she
had made it and failed, it seemed to her that he was braving death. Had
she been different, perhaps he would not have rebelled and could have
lived the quiet life with her. It needed little more to make her tell
herself that she drove him to his death, that she was with the enemy,
with the chattering world and with poor deluded old Aunt Maria; she was
of the conspirators; she egged him on to brave his doom.
In darker vein still ran her musings sometimes, when there came over her
that haunting self-distrust; the fear that she was juggling with herself,
shutting her eyes to the sin of her own heart, and, in spite of all her
protestations, was really inspired by a secret hope too black and
treacherous to put in words.
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