Had you had your
way, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoilt
because of you--because of your loyalty."
"Three?"
"Yours. Yes--yes, yours, Feversham's, and mine. It was hard enough to
keep the pretence during the few weeks we were in Devonshire. Own to it,
Ethne! When I went to London to see my oculist it was a relief; it gave
you a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It could
not have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to live
under the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when we
saw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth must
have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a
suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have
flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear.
And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to
make up to me for the loss of what I love--my career, the army, the
special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine
compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple
out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone
the happiness which is yours by right.
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