He pitied Richard; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, he
perceived a grief he could not touch--the anguish of a remorse which
might have no end in this life. As the doctors came down stairs John
went to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturing
anxiety was worth going for. The foremost made a slight movement, a
motion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and when
he heard the words, "She may recover," he hastened back to Richard,
and said, "There is a hope for her, and for us. God forgive us!"
Richard never answered a word, and John wandered for hours upon the
beach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to understand
how far he had been to blame. Perhaps it is in the want of pity that
the real _infernal_ of Satan consists; for whenever he sees us
overwhelmed with sorrow, then he casts into our throbbing heart his
fiercest weapons. Doubt, anguish, and prostration of hope, worse than
death, assailed him. He tried to pray, but felt as if his cries were
uttered to an inexorable silence.
As for Richard, he was so mentally stunned that it was not until he
had been taken to Phyllis, and she had whispered, "I shall be better
soon, Richard," that a saving reaction could be induced. Then the
_abandon_ of his grief was terrible; then he felt something of
that remorse for sin which needs no material fiery adjunct to make
a hell for the soul.
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