And the only thought that would take solid
hold in her mind was that the two feelings, gentle love and hard
desire, were one in a man, inseparable, and that even as a child she
had inspired both in him. My
Mary. Mine. She wanted to fall on her knees then and there, and pray
to be taken to him, in death or in life. But the sound of her mother's
voice stayed her, rising angrily from below.
"Mary! What are you about? Come down here at once."
Obediently, though without affection she submitted, descending the
wooden ladder-stair from the loft that served as her bedroom. Her
mother's face and whole bearing spoke of the cold composure, the
loveless discipline which always followed such an outburst. It was an
expression she had come to know all too well. Wherein lay the mystery
of this woman? She did not know, only that there was no commiseration,
no sense of shared loss between them, and that she was hardly what the
younger woman imagined a mother should be.
But on this day there was especial agitation among her classic, though
faded Scot features---round, sturdy face and steady, full blue
eyes---and a greater visible effort to control herself.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25