Read it, feeling the first enchantment but all
cross-hatched now and seamed with perplexity and regret. For decent
barriers must stand, he declared, which meant concealment indefinitely
prolonged, the love of brother and sister wasted, starved to the mean
proportions of an occasional furtive letter; sacrificed, with all its
possibilities of present joy and future comfort, to hide the passage of
long-ago wrongdoing in which it had its source.
Her hesitation went a step behind this presently, arguing as to how that
could be sin which produced so gracious a result. It wasn't logical an
evil tree should bear such conspicuously good fruit. Yet conscience and
instinct assured her the tree was indeed evil--a thing of license, of
unruly passion upon which she might not look. Had it not been her first
thought--when Faircloth told her, drifting down the tide-river in the
chill and dark--that he must feel sad, feel angry having been wronged by
the manner of his birth? He had answered "yes," thereby admitting the
inherent evil of the tree of which his existence was the fruit--adding,
"but not often and not for long," since he esteemed the gift of life too
highly to be overnice as to the exact method by which he became possessed
of it.
Pages:
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426