O." A
love poem; not addressed to her, but about her; a pretty poem, she
thought, delicately felt and gracefully worded. It surprised her,
but only for a moment; thinking, she accepted it as something
natural, and was touched by the tribute. She put it carefully away
--knowing it by heart.
Impertinence! Surely not. Long ago she had reproached herself with
her half-coquetry to Piers Otway, an error of exuberant spirits when
she was still very young. There was no obscuring the fact;
deliberately she had set herself to draw him away from his studies;
she had made it a point of pride to show herself irresistible. Where
others failed in their attack upon his austere seclusion, _she_
would succeed, and easily. She had succeeded only too well, and it
never quite ceased to trouble her conscience. Now, learning that
even after four years her victim still remained loyal, she thought
of him with much gentleness, and would have scorned herself had she
felt scorn of his devotion.
No other of her wooers had ever written her a poem; no other was
capable of it. It gave Piers a distinction in her mind which more
than earned her pardon.
But--poor fellow!--he must surely know that she could never
respond to his romantic feeling. It was pure romance, and charming
--if only it did not mean sorrow to him and idle hopes. Such a love
as this, distant, respectful, she would have liked to keep for
years, for a lifetime.
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