But, sometimes, she wondered
whether he could still be quite faithful to her in thought, love her as
he used to; and joy would go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till,
at his return, the sun came out again. Love such as hers--passionate,
adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice itself, to give all that it
had to him, yet secretly demanding all his love in return--for how
could a proud woman love one who did not love her?--such love as this is
always longing for a union more complete than it is likely to get in
a world where all things move and change. But against the grip of this
love she never dreamed of fighting now. From the moment when she
knew she must cling to him rather than to her baby, she had made no
reservations; all her eggs were in one basket, as her father's had been
before her--all!
The moonlight was shining full on the old bureau and a vase of tulips
standing there, giving those flowers colour that was not colour, and
an unnamed look, as if they came from a world which no human enters. It
glinted on a bronze bust of old Voltaire, which she had bought him for
a Christmas present, so that the great writer seemed to be smiling from
the hollows of his eyes. Gyp turned the bust a little, to catch the
light on its far cheek; a letter was disclosed between it and the
oak. She drew it out thinking: 'Bless him! He uses everything for
paper-weights'; and, in the strange light, its first words caught her
eyes:
"DEAR BRYAN,
"But I say--you ARE wasting yourself--"
She laid it down, methodically pushing it back under the bust.
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