But what he dreaded most was that her composure should return.
"Do not be angry with me," he said; "I ask because it is right that I
should know. Can you not get rid of this bond of marriage?"
"Do you think," she asked, "that the good God and the Holy Virgin would
desire me to put myself--my life--all that is sacred--into courts and
newspapers? Do you think the holy Mother of God--looking down upon me,
her child--wants me to get out of trouble in _that_ way?" Josephine had
asked the question first in distress; then, with a face of peerless
scorn, she seemed to put some horrid scene from before her with her
hand. "The dear God would rather I would drown myself," she said; "it
would at least be"--she hesitated for a word, as if at a loss in her
English--"at least be cleaner."
She had no sooner finished that speech than the scorn died out of her
face:
"Ah, no," she cried repentant; "the men and women who are driven to seek
such redress--I--I truly pity them--but for me--it would not be any use
even if it were right. O'Shea says it would be no use, and he knows. I
don't think I would do it if I could; but I could not if I would."
"Surely he is dead," pleaded Caius. "How can you live if you do not
believe that?"
She came a little nearer to him, making the explanation with child-like
earnestness:
"You see, I have talked to God and to the holy Mother about this.
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