She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell Harry to ask him‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe did not often see her husband, but she must ask him now and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. A moment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. From the other side the words came distinctly and clearly:
‚Äú‚ÅÝ‚Äîother children, doctor?‚Äù
‚ÄúYou must have no other children, Mr. ¬ÝCresswell.‚Äù
“Why?”
“Because the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.”
Slowly, softly, she crept away. Her mind seemed very clear. And she began a long journey to reach her window and chair‚ÅÝ‚Äîa long, long journey; but at last she sank into the chair again and sat dry-eyed, wondering who had conceived this world and made it, and why.
A long time afterward she found herself lying in bed, awake, conscious, clear-minded. Yet she thought as little as possible, for that was pain; but she listened gladly, for without she heard the solemn beating of the sea, the mighty rhythmic beating of the sea. Long days she lay, and sat and walked beside those vast and speaking waters, till at last she knew their voice and they spoke to her and the sea-calm soothed her soul.
For one brief moment of her life she saw herself clearly: a well-meaning woman, ambitious, but curiously narrow; not willing to work long for the Vision, but leaping at it rashly, blindly, with a deep-seated sense of duty which she made a source of offence by preening and parading it, and forcing it to ill-timed notice. She saw that she had looked on her husband as a means not an end. She had wished to absorb him and his work for her own glory. She had idealized for her own uses a very human man whose life had been full of sin and fault. She must atone.