He could
almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,--as
if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled
with an obstinate muse,--and the quick, gentle rise and fall of
her young breast. He could see her lift her head now and then to
stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. He
could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she
wrote these precious lines,--with David scratching away laboriously
at the opposite end of the table. A strange tenderness entered his
soul. Something akin to reverence took possession of him. He had
invaded sanctuary.
Slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the manuscript in the drawer
beside its bristling mate. Then he resolutely closed the drawer,
blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the
creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. Even as he convicted
himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. The virtuous
renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,--the account with cupidity.
He was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar:
"It would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even
as a joke,--and I came mighty near to doing it. Thank the Lord, I
didn't. Of course, it's piffle,--both of 'em,--but I just COULDN'T
take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of
it. Anyhow, my conscience is clear.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182