I may seem to have acted
with an utter disregard for your feelings--"
He broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with
his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly
bowed.
"I drew on the reserve of an old friendship," he said. "You were
kind enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to
some extent. You are indebted to me to a larger extent than you
perhaps realise. You owe me fifty years of happiness--fifty years
of a life that might have been happy had you decided differently
when--when we were younger. I do not blame you now--I never have
blamed you. But the debt is there--you know my life, you know
almost every day of it--you cannot deny the debt. I drew upon
that."
And the white-haired woman raised her hand.
"Don't," she said gently, "please don't say any more. I know all
that your life has been, and why. You did quite right. What is a
little trouble to me, a little passing inconvenience, the tattle of
a few idle tongues, compared with what Jack's life is to you? I see
now that I ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it
take its course. You were right--you always have been right, John.
There is a sort of consolation in the thought. I like it. I like
to think that you were always right and that it was I who was wrong.
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