'I should like to tell you,' he began, looking at me like a dog under
punishment, 'that I have done all I could. As soon as my wife fell ill, and
when I saw--I had only begun to think of it in that way--how she felt the
disappointment, I went at once to Mrs. Keeting's house to tell her that I
would sell the books. But she was out of town. I wrote to her--I said I
regretted my folly--I entreated her to forgive me and to renew her kind
offer. There has been plenty of time for a reply, but she doesn't answer.'
He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's catalogue, just delivered
by the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced over
the first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thing
violently away.
'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along the
little strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course she
said she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knew
would please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruel
enough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his arms
frantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her face
how her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knew
what she was suffering; I _knew_ it, I tell you! And, like a selfish
coward, I let her suffer--I let her drop down and die--die!'
'Any hour,' I said, 'may bring you the reply from Mrs.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172