No woman could do more for a man than she had
done. She had been his salvation and his good angel; when she had found
out that the life in Paris that amused her was killing him, she had
brought him back to himself, she had made him at last fit and able to
face those who would have destroyed him. She had loved him like a
woman, she had obeyed him and served him like a devoted servant, she had
watched over him like a faithful dog; and he had given her nothing in
return for all that, not one thing that deserved to be counted. Perhaps
he had not even really loved her; most surely his love had been far less
large and true and devoted than hers, and he felt that it was so. The
reparation he was determined to make was not really for her honesty's
sake; it was to be an attempt at repaying a debt that was weighing upon
his conscience like a debt of honour.
That was it. He felt that unless he could in some way repay her for what
she had done, his man's honour would not be satisfied. That was very
well, in its way, but it was not love. It was as if he had said to
himself, "I cannot love her as she loves me, but I can at least marry
her; and that is better than nothing, and has the merit of being morally
right."
She had told him that if she still made him happy he would not talk of
marriage. The brutal truth shamed him, now that he knew it from her own
lips. It was not the whole truth, but it was a great part of it.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335