Contact with her warm, distinct humanity began immediately to work a
change in his mind. Absent, he had decided that he could dispose of her
as he would. Present, he recognized that she would have a voice, and
probably a casting voice, in the disposal of herself. He might sever her
from her friends in the Forest, but he would not thereby attach her to
friends and kinsfolk in the north. His last wanton act of selfish
unkindness, in refusing to let her see her old home in passing, was
evidently producing its effect in silent grieving, in resentment and
revolt.
All his life long Mr. Fairfax had coveted affection, and had missed the
way to win it. No one had ever really loved him except his sister
Dorothy--so he believed; and Elizabeth was so like Dorothy in the face,
in her air, her voice, her gestures, that his heart went out to her with
a yearning that was almost pain. But when he looked at her, she looked
at him again like Dorothy alienated--like Dorothy grown strange. It was
a very curious revival out of the far past. When he was a young man and
Lady Latimer was a girl, there had been a prospect of a double marriage
between their families, but the day that destroyed one hope destroyed
both, and Dorothy Fairfax died of that grief. Elizabeth, with her
tear-worn eyes, was Dorothy's sad self to-night, only the eyes did not
seek his friendly. They were gazing at pictures in the fire when he
rejoined her, and though Bessie moved and raised her head in courteous
recognition of his coming, there was something of avoidance in her
manner, as if she shrank from his inspection.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249