He no longer said, "I have
lost her," he no longer thought of his loss at all. He heard her words,
"I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much pain." He
felt that they would go ringing down the world with him, persistent in
his ears, spoken upon the very accent of her voice. He was sure that he
would hear them at the end above the voices of any who should stand
about him when he died, and hear in them his condemnation. For it was
not right.
The ball finished shortly afterwards. The last carriage drove away, and
those who were staying in the house sought the smoking-room or went
upstairs to bed according to their sex. Feversham, however, lingered in
the hall with Ethne. She understood why.
"There is no need," she said, standing with her back to him as she
lighted a candle, "I have told my father. I told him everything."
Feversham bowed his head in acquiescence.
"Still, I must wait and see him," he said.
Ethne did not object, but she turned and looked at him quickly with her
brows drawn in a frown of perplexity. To wait for her father under such
circumstances seemed to argue a certain courage. Indeed, she herself
felt some apprehension as she heard the door of the study open and
Dermod's footsteps on the floor.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79