Once
she kissed it humbly like a little child while her tears rained
down. Never before was there anything as innocently heartbreaking.
She was so piteously grateful for love of any kind and so heart
wrung by my misery."
He paused again and looked down at the carpet, thinking. Then he
looked up at her directly.
"I need not explain to you. You will know. I was twenty-five. My
heart was pounding in my side, my blood thudded through my veins.
Every atom of natural generous manhood in my being was wild with
fury at the brutal wrong done her exquisiteness. And she--"
"She was a young novice fresh from a convent and very pious," the
Duchess' quiet voice put in.
"You understand," he answered. "She knelt down and prayed for
her own soul as well as mine. She thanked God that I was kind and
would forgive her and go away--and only remember her in my prayers.
She believed it was possible. It was not, but I kissed the hem of
her white dress and left her standing alone--a little saint in a
woodland shrine. That was what I thought deliriously as I staggered
off. It was the next night that I heard her shrieks. Then she
died."
The Duchess knew what else had died--the high adventure of youth
and joy of life in him, the brilliant spirit which had been himself
and whose utter withdrawal from his being had left him as she had
seen him on his return to London in those days which now seemed
a memory of a past life in a world which had passed also.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359