two sinners drew nearer and nearer together, for the simple reason
that this is an autobiography, and not a novel. I do not know what
the development was, nor did anybody except the person concerned.
Neither do I know what was the mental history of Mrs. Butts during
this unhappy period. She seldom talked about it afterwards. I do,
however, happen to recollect hearing her once say that her greatest
trouble was the cessation, from some unknown cause, of Clem's
attempts--they were never many--to interest and amuse her. It is
easy to understand how this should be. If a man is guilty of any
defection from himself, of anything of which he is ashamed,
everything which is better becomes a farce to him. After he has been
betrayed by some passion, how can he pretend to the perfect enjoyment
of what is pure? The moment he feels any disposition to rise, he is
stricken through as if with an arrow, and he drops. Not until weeks,
months, and even years have elapsed, does he feel justified in
surrendering himself to a noble emotion. I have heard of persons who
have been able to ascend easily and instantaneously from the mud to
the upper air, and descend as easily; but to me at least they are
incomprehensible. Clem, less than most men, suffered permanently, or
indeed in any way from remorse, because he was so shielded by his
peculiar philosophy; but I can quite believe that when he got into
the habit of calling at the Hall at mid-day, his behaviour to his
wife changed.

One day in December the squire had gone out with the hounds. Clem,
going on from bad to worse, had now reached the point of planning to
be at the Hall when the squire was not at home. On that particular
afternoon Clem was there. It was about half-past four o'clock, and
the master was not expected till six. There had been some music, the
lady accompanying, and Clem singing. It was over, and Clem, sitting