He had always eluded her; although he had once
certainly loved her with, at any rate, a semblance of earthly
passion, his spiritual life had always come between them, holding
him from her, helping him to escape when he pleased, tantalising,
sometimes maddening too. She was certainly now not so ready to
dismiss that spiritual life as once she had been. She was herself an
old heathen; for herself she believed in nothing but her earthly
appetites and desires, but for him and for others there might be
something in it, . . . and perhaps some day some dreadful thing
would occur . . . a chariot of Fire descend upon the Chapel and some
sort of a fierce and hostile God deliver judgment; she only hoped
that she would be dead before then.
Meanwhile she and Amy had, undoubtedly, during these last years,
increased their influence over him. He was not aware of it, but as
he was growing now older and weaker--he had had trouble with his
heart--he inevitably depended more upon them. The old lady began to
count upon her triumph. Then came Martin's return.
She had forgotten Martin. It is true that she had written to him
every week during his long absence, but her letters had been all
part of the "dear old lady" habit which was put on by her just as an
actress prepares herself, nightly, for a character in which she
knows she is the greatest possible success.
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