The
fact remained that the tarnished Cuckoo, in the first moments of regret,
was more conscious of his sin for him than he was conscious of it for
himself; that she led him, with her dingy hands, to such repentance as he
experienced, and that she, too, guarded him against repetition of the
sin, so far as she was concerned. Julian considered these circumstances;
and there was a time when they were not without effect upon him, and
when, with the assistance of a word from Valentine, they might have
worked upon him an easy salvation. But Valentine did not speak that word.
His peculiar purity had saved Julian in the past by its mere existence.
Its presence was enough. That _satis_ was dead now. Julian did not ask
why. Nor did he find himself troubled by its decease. There is nothing
like action for making man unobservant. Julian was no longer a ship in
dock, nor even a ship riding at anchor. The anchor was up, the sails were
set, the water ran back from the vessel's prow.
Cuckoo was not conscious of this. Sometimes she was subtle by intuition;
often she was not subtle at all. When she understood Julian's nature for
the moment, it was because his nature was, for the moment, in close
relation to hers. Her fate was affected by it, or its passages of arms
clashed near her heart.
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