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Updated: May 4, 2025
"She will be convicted," was Julian's first utterance, when he had sat for a few minutes in Waymark's room, whilst Waymark himself paced up and down. The latter turned, and saw that tears were on his friend's hollow cheeks. "Did you sleep better last night?" he asked. "Good God, no! I never closed my eyes. That's the third night without rest.
Enderby had made up her mind with regard to her new acquaintance in one or two gleams of her quick eyes, and then talked on in an eager, intelligent way, full of contagious enthusiasm, which soon brought out Waymark's best powers. Maud said very little. Whenever it was possible unobserved, she gazed at Waymark's face.
The marriage affected their intercourse. Harriet did not like to be left alone in the evening, so Julian could not go to Waymark's, as he had been accustomed to, and conversation in Mrs. Casti's presence was, of course, under restraint. Waymark bore this with impatience, and even did his best to alter it.
Nothing remained but to walk about the streets all night, resting on a stone when he became too weary to go further, sheltering a little here or there when the wind cut him too keenly. Rather this, oh, a thousand times rather, than the hell behind him. In the early days of October, Waymark's book appeared. It excited no special attention.
She was silent, and, meeting Waymark's eyes so fixed on her own, became conscious of the eagerness and fervour with which she had spoken. "Have you any experience of such things?" she asked nervously. "Did you ever suffer in the same way?" "It is all very strange," he said, without answering her question. "This overpowering consciousness of sin is an anachronism in our time.
True, she had at length fulfilled her promise of telling him the whole of her story, but even this increase of confidence Waymark's uneasy mind strangely converted into fresh source of discomfort to himself.
"This is a queer place to live in," observed Waymark, as he looked up at the dark houses. "Don't be afraid," was the good-humoured reply, as she opened the door with a latch-key. They went up two flights of stairs, then entered a room where a bright fire was burning. Waymark's conductor held a piece of paper to the flame, and lit a lamp. It was a small, pleasantly furnished sitting-room.
But Waymark's introspection was at fault; he understood himself less in proportion as he felt that the ground was growing firmer under his feet. Even when he wrote the letter to the prison, promising to meet Ida, he had acted as if out of mere humanity. It needed a chance such as the present to open his eyes.
One evening in the week she looked forward to with eagerness; it was that on which Waymark was generally expected. In Waymark's presence she could forget those dark spirits that hovered about her; she could forget herself, and be at rest in the contemplation of strength and confidence.
"No; but I hear of her." "From your friend?" "Yes, from O'Gree." "Do your other friends still live near you?" Ida asked, speaking quickly, as if to interrupt what Waymark was about to say. "The Castis? Oh yes." "What is Mrs. Casti like?" she said, in a tone which attracted Waymark's attention. "Well," he replied, "it's difficult to describe her.
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