He is
her only relation in the world. To-night I must sleep, if I can.
But I do not sleep. I wonder if I have been a good husband to Dorothy.
What was she doing, how living, in the years past, when I was absorbed
in business, following the fortunes of Douglas, studying the books that
had no bearing upon her happiness nor, alas, upon mine? I saw her now as
patient, sometimes alone, perhaps always waiting for me, but never
complaining. How many happy hours had I sacrificed to other things when
I might have been with her! Was Dorothy happy? Did she love me? I began
to think over the occasions of her demonstrations of affection--after
all how few they were! Always tender toward me, but how infrequently
were there moments of passion, of ecstasy. Had I awakened all of her
nature? Had I been living a neutral life all these years? Was I in some
sort a negligible character, without magnetism, of unfulfilled passion?
A slumbering nature?
But where now was Dorothy's body? We were fifty miles, seventy-five
miles, a hundred miles from the unmarked spot of burial. She had sunk
fathoms into the abyss. The bell on the boat had rung the midnight, then
one o'clock. I heard it toll for two--then I slept. I awoke hearing
little Reverdy sobbing. I stood out of the berth and tried to comfort
him. Then we dressed and went to breakfast.
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