FullReads

Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her quivering one. “Poor little girl!” he murmured.

“Then /you/ came,” she said, “and before long I had another feeling to fight against. At first I thought it couldn’t be true that I loved you –it would die down. I think I was /frightened/ at the feeling; I didn’t know it hurt so to love any one.”

Broomhurst stirred a little. “Go on,” he said, tersely.

“But it didn’t die,” she continued, in a trembling whisper, “and the other /awful/ feeling grew stronger and stronger–hatred; no, that is not the word–/loathing/ for–for–John. I fought against it. Yes,” she cried, feverishly, clasping and unclasping her hands; “Heaven knows I fought it with all my strength, and reasoned with myself, and –oh, I did /everything/, but–” Her quick-falling tears made speech difficult.

“Kathleen!” Broomhurst urged, desperately, “you couldn’t help it, you poor child. You say yourself you struggled against your feelings. You were always gentle; perhaps he didn’t know.”

“But he did–he /did/,” she wailed; “it is just that. I hurt him a hundred times a day; he never said so, but I knew it; and yet I /couldn’t/ be kind to him,–except in words,–and he understood. And after you came it was worse in one way, for he knew–I /felt/ he knew –that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog’s, and I was stabbed with remorse, and I tried to be good to him, but I couldn’t.”

“But–he didn’t suspect–he trusted you,” began Broomhurst. “He had every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so–“

“Hush!” she almost screamed. “Loyal! it was the least I could do–to stop you, I mean–when you–After all, I knew it without your telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn’t prevent his knowing that I hated him, I could prevent /that/. It was my punishment. I deserved it for /daring/ to marry without love. But I didn’t spare John one pang after all,” she added, bitterly. “He knew what I felt toward him; I don’t think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn’t reproach myself? When I went back to the tent that morning–when you–when I stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands; he was crying–bitterly. I saw him,–it is terrible to see a man cry,–and I stole away gently, but he saw me. I was torn to pieces, but I /couldn’t/ go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to be borne that he should do that–when I knew /you/ loved me.”

“Kathleen,” cried her lover, again, “don’t dwell on it all so terribly –don’t–“

“How can I forget?” she answered, despairingly. “And then,”–she lowered her voice,–“oh, I can’t tell you–all the time, at the back of my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might /die/. I used to lie awake at night, and, do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to /scorch/ me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing one can bring such things to pass?” she asked, looking at Broomhurst with feverishly bright eyes. “No? Well, I don’t know. I tried to smother it,–I /really/ tried,–but it was there, whatever other thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was /you/. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and well, and knew it was /John/, was /that it was too good to be true/. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn’t I? . . . Not to blame? Why, if it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t have died. The men say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face buried in his hands–just as I had seen him the day before. He didn’t trouble to be careful; he was too wretched.”