She had got over that feeling of hatred of
which she once accused herself.
"It wasn't her fault," said she, one day, quite suddenly.
"What?" I asked.
"That she didn't love David in the way he loved her. I don't think she
deceived him. He never said anything, you know; so, of course, she had
no reason for being any other than kind to him. I believe she felt badly
about it, herself. I've seen her, when she thought I was asleep, lean
her head upon her hand, and sit so for a great while. Maybe, though,
it's because I want so much to love her that I make excuses for her. I
wish she'd come,--it's so lonely."
And it was lonely. It was like remaining in the theatre after the play
is over and the actors retired. For Warren Luce, too, was gone. His
visit was only for the summer, and he had returned to his clerkship.
"How would it have been, if he hadn't come?" I asked myself. "Might
David have been happy? Might she have loved him as 'Jane' loved? And how
much of her heart had the Doctor's boy carried away? Perhaps his power
over her was greater than she would own,--greater than she knew herself.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275