Vera Nevill : $b or, Poor wisdom's chanceCameron, H. Lovett, Mrs.
General
Vera Nevill : $b or, Poor wisdom's chance
Cameron, H. Lovett, Mrs.
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Sisters -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
"I cannot stop," he said, in a cold, measured voice; "it is an
impossibility. But, since you ask me, I will tell you why. It can make no
possible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interest
or your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it is
over and you go away you will forget it again. I do not ask you to
remember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget.
This is what it is. Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing you
happiness and love. I can rejoice in your happiness. I am not so selfish
as to lament it; but you will not wish me to be there to see it when I
tell you that I have been fool enough to dare to love you myself. It is
the folly of a madman, is it not? since I have never had the slightest
hope or entertained the faintest wish to alter the conditions of your
life; nor have I even asked myself what effect such a confession as this
that you have wrung from me can have upon you. Whether it excites your
pity or your contempt, or even your amusement, it cannot in any case make
any difference to me. My folly, at all events, cannot hurt you or my
brother; it can hurt no one but myself: it cannot even signify to you.
It is only for my own sake that I am going, because one cannot bear more
than a certain amount, can one? I thought I might have been strong
enough, but I find that it would be too much; that is all. You will not
ask me to stay any more, will you?"
Not once had he looked at her; not by a single sign or token had he
betrayed the slightest emotion or agitation. His voice had been steady
and unbroken; he spoke in a low and somewhat monotonous manner; it was
as though he had been relating something that in no way concerned
himself--some story that was of some other, and that other of no great
interest either to him who told it or to her who listened to the tale.
Any one suddenly coming into the room would have guessed him to be
entirely engrossed in the contemplation of the little dog between his
hands; that he was relating the story of his own heart would not have
been imagined for an instant.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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