What his father might do
was no matter to that. He had offered her what he was and given it
faithfully. And she had not played fair. When she found herself
confessing that, she discovered a new power of being wretched. All the
romantic, egoistic melancholy went down the wind. The finest, proudest of
her, her own honour, told of a torturing wound.
"I'll satisfy you"--that had been the boast before the wild marriage was
done. And after all she had chosen to deny him. Nothing else could
matter. There could be no excuse. It was he that she had taken, not his
name or what he might be, and he had not changed. It was herself that she
had promised--what other honour for woman or man than to give like for
like?--and she had broken faith. She was humiliated--a state of all
others the most dolorous for Alison.
To it came on a merry spring day Mr. Waverton. She was in two minds
whether to let him see her, and then--too proud to hide from him or
greedy of a chance to hurt him--had him in.
Mr. Waverton had decorated himself for a house of mourning. His large
form was all black and silver and drooped sympathetically. His handsome
face was set in a chastened melancholy as of one who grieves for
another's trouble with a modest satisfaction. "Dear lady," says he
tenderly, and bowed over her hand.
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