I am willing
to teach her all in my power."
"Aye, learn to despise her mother," commented Mrs. Bathurst, with sudden
bitterness, "after all the trouble I've taken to make her respect me."
"I should never teach her that," Isabel answered quietly. "And I am sure
that she would be quite incapable of learning it. Mrs. Bathurst, do you
really think that worldly position is a thing that greatly matters to
anyone in the long run? I don't."
It was then that a faint, half-grudging admiration awoke in the elder
woman's resentful soul, and she looked at Isabel with the first glimmer
of kindliness. "You're right," she said slowly, "it don't matter to those
who've got it. But to those who haven't--" her eyes glowed red for a
moment--"you don't know how it galls," she said.
And then she flushed dully, realizing that she had made a confidante of
one of the hated breed.
But Isabel's hand was on hers in a moment; her eyes, full of
understanding, looked earnest friendship into hers. "Oh, I know," she
said. "It is the little things that gall us all, until--until some
great--some fundamental--sorrow wrenches our very lives in twain. And
then--and then--one can almost laugh to think one ever cared about them."
Her voice throbbed with feeling. She had lifted the veil for a moment to
salve the other woman's bitterness.
And Mrs. Bathurst realized it, and was touched.
Pages:
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318