She was so thin, so wasted, the bed and room so stripped of every
comfort, that he dropped forward on his knees, his arms outflung across
her body in an inarticulate prayer for faith, for strength and
patience.
It was not much he wanted--only food for one child and help for a
woman, and a grip on the devil tearing at him in the form of hatred.
He got only a temporary relief, for when he went down Bella and June
Bowman were whispering together; he passed the door with his silent
tread and saw their heads close. Bella was actually pretty.
An astonishing possibility occurred to him--perhaps Bella would go away
with Bowman. An unbidden deep relief at such a prospect invaded him;
how happy he could be with Flavilla. They would get a smaller house,
which Flavilla would soon learn to keep for him; they would go to
church and prayer meeting together, her soprano voice and his bass
joined in the praise of the Lord, of the Almighty who raised the dead
and his Son, who took the thief to glory.
This speculation was overcome by a troubled mind; both his innate pride
in his wife as an institution of his honor, the feeling that he would
uphold it at any cost, and his Christianity interrupted the vision of
release. He must not let her stumble, and he would see that June Bowman
didn't interfere in his home. More beer made its appearance, and the
other man grew louder, boastful. He exhibited the roll of money--that
was nothing, four times that much could be had from the same source.
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