. . ."
With a deep-drawn sigh Hylda said to herself: "If I were dying to-morrow,
would I say that? She loved them so--at first must have loved them so;
and yet this at the last! And I--oh, no, no, no!" She looked at a
portrait of Eglington on the table near, touched it caressingly, and
added, with a sob in her voice: "Oh, Harry, no, it is not true! It is not
native evil and cruelty in your blood. It has all been a mistake. You
will do right. We will do right, Harry. You will suffer, it will hurt,
the lesson will be hard--to give up what has meant so much to you; but we
will work it out together, you and I, my very dear. Oh, say that we
shall, that . . . ." She suddenly grew silent. A tremor ran through her,
she became conscious of his presence near her, and turned, as though he
were behind her. There was nothing. Yet she felt him near, and, as she
did so, the soul-deep feeling with which she had spoken to the portrait
fled. Why was it that, so often, when absent from him, her imagination
helped her to make excuses for him, inspired her to press the real truth
out of sight, and to make believe that he was worthy of a love which, but
through some inner fault of her own, might be his altogether, and all the
love of which he was capable might be hers?
She felt him near her, and the feelings possessing her a moment before
slowly chilled and sank away.
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