Wounded, frightened,
dismayed, not understanding, unable to deny, the girl turned in reluctant
flight from the place that was, to her, because of her love, holy ground.
It was impossible for Sibyl not to believe Mrs. Taine--the woman had
spoken so kindly; had seemed so reluctant to speak at all; had appeared so
to appreciate her innocence. A thousand trivial and unimportant incidents,
that, in the light of the worldly woman's words, could be twisted to
evidence the truth of the things she said, came crowding in upon the
girl's mind. Instead of helping Aaron King with his work, instead of truly
enjoying life with him, as she had thought, her friendship was to him a
menace, a danger. She had believed--and the belief had brought her a
strange happiness--that he had cared for her companionship. He had cared
only to use her for his pictures--as he used his brushes. He had played
with her--as she had seen him toy idly with a brush, while thinking over
his work. He would throw her aside, when she had served his purpose, as
she had seen him throw a worn-out brush aside.
The woman who was still a child could not blame the artist--she was too
loyal to what she had thought was their friendship; she was too unselfish
in her yet unrecognized love for her chosen mate.
Pages:
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440