I
tucked it under my arm and descended the stairs noiselessly. I would
look into the study and speak good-bye to Laurence; then I would--
I pushed open the door. He was lying on the couch where a short time
previously he had sat, white and speechless, listening to Father
Paul. I moved towards him softly. God in heaven, he was already
asleep. As I bent over him the fullness of his perfect beauty
impressed me for the first time; his slender form, his curving mouth
that almost laughed even in sleep, his fair, tossed hair, his
smooth, strong-pulsing throat. God! how I loved him!
Then there arose the picture of the factor's daughter. I hated her.
I hated her baby face, her yellow hair, her whitish skin. "She shall
not marry him," my soul said. "I will kill him first--kill his
beautiful body, his lying, false heart." Something in my heart
seemed to speak; it said over and over again, "Kill him, kill him;
she will never have him then. Kill him. It will break Father Paul's
heart and blight his life. He has killed the best of you, of your
womanhood; kill _his_ best, his pride, his hope--his sister's son,
his nephew Laurence." But how? how?
What had that terrible old man said I was like? A _strange snake_.
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