She was tired out at last, footsore, and hardly able to move a limb,
when Dermot almost lifted her into the carriage, the dreadful, hard
self-control all over now, when, in those long lanes, with the
Maybushes meeting overhead, she leant against me and sobbed with
long-pent anguish, while her brother walked at the pony's head.
She had quite broken down now, and her natural self was come back to
us. When we came home, I got her up to her own room and Dermot went
to his mother. She had a long, quiet sleep, lying on her bed, and
when she woke it was growing dark on the May evening. She looked at
me a little while without speaking, and her eyes were soft again.
"Lucy," she said, "I think I have been very naughty, but they made me
so."
I said, as I kissed her, that I thought "they" had done so.
"_He_ would not have let anybody make him so," she said. "I was the
bad one. I was almost unfaithful. I told him so to-day."
"Not unfaithful, dearest, only harassed and miserable beyond all
bearing."
"Nothing is beyond bearing. I said so to myself over and over again.
That was why I would let no one see that I minded."
"You tried to bear it proudly, all by yourself," I said; "that was
what made it so dreadful."
"He said it was God's will," said poor Viola, "but I knew it was
mamma's. I did what he told me, Lucy; I did not get so wrong as long
as he lived, but after that I did not care what became of me, and yet
I did love him as much as ever.
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