When he attempted to urge her to repent, the
words stuck in his throat. He left the deathbed of the unfortunate
sinner without having expressed one of the conflicting emotions which
filled his heart. But he left it with such a weight on his soul,
such distress on his mind that death seemed to him the only way of
escape from a life of torment.
His love for Joy Irving was not killed by the story he had heard.
But it had received a terrible shock, and the thought of making her
his wife with the probability that the Baroness would spread the
scandal broadcast, and that his marriage would break his mother's
heart, tortured him. Added to this were his theories on heredity,
and the fear that there might, nay, must be, some dangerous tendency
hidden in the daughter of a mother who had so erred, and who in dying
showed no comprehension of the enormity of her sin. Had Mrs Irving
bewailed her fall, and represented herself as the victim of a wily
villain, the rector would not have felt so great a fear of the
daughter's inheritance. A frail, repentant woman he could pity and
forgive, but it seemed to him that Mrs Irving was utterly lacking in
moral nature. She was spiritually blind. The thought tortured him.
To leave Joy at this time without calling to see her seemed base and
cowardly; yet he dared not trust himself in her presence.
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