Broadstone couldn't help it. Tell him so.
Bless you--Tell Oliver--Yours, J.F."
The greater part of the letter was all but illegible even by her--but
the "bless you" and the "J.F." were more firmly written than the rest,
as though the failing hand had made a last effort.
Her spiritual vanity was hungry and miserable. Surely, though she would
not be his wife, she had been John's best friend!--his good angel. Her
heart clamored for some warmer, gratefuller word--that might justify her
to herself. And, instead, she realized for the first time the desert she
had herself created, the loneliness she had herself imposed. And with
prophetic terror she saw in front of her the daily self-reproach that
her self-esteem might not be able to kill.
"_Tell Oliver_--"
Did it mean "if I die, tell Oliver"? But John never said anything futile
or superfluous in his life. Was it not rather the beginning of some last
word to Oliver that he could not finish? Oh, if her son had indeed
contributed to his death!
She shivered under the thought; hurrying recollections of Mr.
Barrington's visit, of the _Herald_ article of that morning, of Oliver's
speeches and doings during the preceding month, rushing through her
mind.
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