"Hell!" he said between his teeth. "It isn't the fault of that little
girl across the ocean. It's my fault, mine, and the fault of nobody
else."
Indecision, the weakness of a heart easily appealed to, the
irresolution of a man who was not man enough to guard and maintain his
own freedom of action and the right to live his own life--these had
encompassed the wrecking of him.
It seemed that he was at least man enough to admit it, generous enough
to concede it, even if perhaps it was not altogether true.
But never once had he permitted himself, even for a second, to censure
the part played by his mother in the catastrophe. That he had been
persuaded, swerved, over-ridden, dominated, was his own fault.
The boy had been appealed to, subtly, cleverly, on his most vulnerable
side; he had been bothered and badgered and beset. Two women, clever
and hard as nails, had made up their minds to the marriage; the third
remained passive, indifferent, but acquiescent. Wiser, firmer, and
more experienced men than Clive had surrendered earlier. Only the
memory of Athalie held him at all;--some vague, indefinite hope may
have remained that somehow, somewhere, sometime, either the world's
attitude might change or he might develop the courage to ignore it and
to seek his happiness where it lay and let the world howl.
That is probably all that held him at all. And after a while the
constant pressure snapped that thread. This was the result.
* * * * *
He lifted his head and stared, heavy-eyed, at his wife's letter. Then,
dropping the sheets to the floor he turned and laid both arms upon the
table and buried his face in them.
Toward morning his servant discovered him there, asleep.