When Mrs. Gay first came to live with him, she was
so beautiful and so delicate, that she looked as if a wind would
blow her away--so soft that she could smother a person like a mass of
feathers. He felt after that that he had entangled himself, and it was
only at the last when he was dying that he had any remorse. With all
his wickedness there was a terrible kind of religion in him--like a rock
that is buried under the earth--and he wanted to save his soul alive
before he passed on to judgment. As if _that_ did any good--or he
_could_ make amends either to me or to God."
"I rather hope he was as unsuccessful in the last case as in the first.
But, tell me, Molly, how does it affect you?"
"Not at all--not at all--if he has left me money, I shall not touch it.
He wasn't thinking of mother, but of his own soul at the end, and can
you tell me that God would wipe out all his dreadful past just because
of one instant's fear?"
Her passion, so unlike the meekness of Janet Merryweather, made him look
at her wonderingly, and yet with a sympathy that kept him dumb. It took
the spirit of a Gay to match a Gay, he thought, not without bitterness.
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