He
was able to see, however, that she did not look back again.
He rode down the hill. The bad thing which he had done so long ago was
not even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still to
live, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for another
than himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint,
doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, did
not diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught him
yet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harm
was irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. For
Ethne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and if
they love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, he
knew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at the
actual moment of death.
CHAPTER XXXIII
ETHNE AGAIN PLAYS THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE
The incredible words were spoken that evening. Ethne went into her
farm-house and sat down in the parlour. She felt cold that summer
evening and had the fire lighted. She sat gazing into the bright coals
with that stillness of attitude which was a sure sign with her of tense
emotion.
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