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“I don’t understand.”

“As his mother did.”

“But, Mr. Emerson–MR. EMERSON–what are you talking about?”

“When I wouldn’t have George baptized,” said he.

Lucy was frightened.

“And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgment.” He shuddered. “Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible– worst of all–worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgment! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?”

“I don’t know,” gasped Lucy. “I don’t understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it.”

“But Mr. Eager–he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don’t blame him or any one… but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it.”

It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God.

“Oh, how terrible!” said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last.