Now that
shadow was lifted out of them. How deep was the shadow in her husband's
eyes. How deep had it been in the eyes of her father. He had died with
that terrible darkness in his eyes and in his soul. If her husband were
to die thus! A terror came upon her. She looked out at the stones in
the sand and imagined herself there--as the old Arab was--praying for
Androvsky buried there, hidden from her on earth for ever. And suddenly
she felt, "I cannot wait, I must act."
Her faith was deep and strong. Nothing could shake it. But might it not
shake the doubt from another's soul, as a great, pure wind shakes leaves
that are dead from a tree that will blossom with the spring? Hitherto
a sense of intense delicacy had prevented her from ever trying to draw
near definitely to her husband's sadness. But her interview with Count
Anteoni, and the sound of this voice praying, praying for the dead men
in the sand, stirred her to an almost fierce resolution. She had given
herself to Androvsky. He had given himself to her. They were one. She
had a right to draw near to his pain, if by so doing there was a chance
that she might bring balm to it.
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