Why do you not love me?'"
Howard put his head down so that his face was hid from her in her lap.
"After the doctor had talked to me a few minutes, had asked me a few
questions," she went on, "I knew. And I was not sorry. It was nearly over,
anyhow, dear. Did you know it? I often wondered if you did. Yes, I saw many
little signs. I wouldn't admit it to myself until this illness came. Then I
confessed it to myself. And I was not sorry we were to part this way. But I
did not expect"--and she drew a long breath--"happiness!"
"No, no," he protested, lifting his face and looking at her. She drank in
the expression of his eyes--the love, the longing, the misery--as if it had
been a draught of life.
"Ah, you make me so happy, so happy. How much I owe to you. Four long,
long, beautiful years. How much! How much! And at last--love!"
There was silence for several minutes. Then he spoke: "I loved you from the
first, I believe. Only I never appreciated you. I was so self-absorbed. And
you--you fed my vanity, never insisted upon yourself."
"But we have had happiness. And no one, no one, no one will ever be to you
what I have been."
"I love you." Howard's voice had a passionate earnestness in it that
carried conviction. "The light goes out with you.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85