She might have to meet him--she, who knew what she did
know about him, and who, though there had been no absolute
engagement between them, had suffered him to address her as a lover
for four bright April weeks, ending in that thunderbolt of horror and
pain, after which he never came again to the farm-house, and she never
heard from or of him one word more.
Ought she to have told all this to her husband--was it her duty to tell
him now? Again and again the question recurred to her, full of endless
perplexities. She and Dr. Grey were not like two young people of equal
years. Why trouble him, a man of middle age, with what he might
think a silly, girlish love-story? and, above all, why wound him by
what is the sharpest pain to a loving heart, the sudden discovery of
things hitherto concealed, but which ought to have been told long ago?
He might feel it thus--or thus--she could not tell; she did not, even yet,
know him well enough to be quite sure. The misfortune of all hasty
unions had been hers--she had to find out everything after marriage.
The sweet familiarity of long courtship, which makes peculiarities and
faults excusable, nay, dear, just because they are so familiar that the
individual would not be himself or herself without them--this sacred
guarantee for all wedded happiness had not been the lot of Christian
Grey.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174