They moved slowly, and she, as in a dream, followed them on the
other side with little steps, wondering, fearing, starting now with a
wild thrill of liberty at last, now struggling with a half
conventional, half hysterical sob that rose in her throat at the
thought of death so near. She had lived with him, she had played the
long comedy of love with him, she had loathed him in her heart, she had
smiled at him with well-trained eyes; and now she was free to choose,
free to love, free to be Arnold's wife. And yet she had lived with the
dead man; and in the far-off past there were little tender lights of
happiness, half real, half played, but never forgotten, upon which she
had once taught her thoughts to dwell tenderly and sadly. She had loved
the dead man in the first days of marriage, as well as her cold and
unawakened nature could love at all--if not for himself, at least for
the hopes of vanity built on his name. She had hated him in secret, but
she could not have hated him so heartily had there not once been a
little love to turn so fiercely sour. She could not have trained her
eyes to smile at him so gently had she not once smiled for his own
sake. And so, when they brought him dead to the gate of his own house,
his wife had still some shreds of memories for weeds to eke out a show
of sorrow.
She passed through the postern in the small round tower beside the
gateway, knowing that when she came out under the portcullis, the
funeral train would be just reaching the other end of the bridge.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34