Yet to me there
came, very slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had
forgotten the old ties. I fought against that conviction. I would not
entertain it. Then came for me the fatal day when I heard you tell the
Duchess of Aytoun that you had never seen the woman you would care to
make your wife. I heard your confession, but would not give in; I clung
to the idea of winning your love, even after I had hoped against hope,
and tried to make you care for me. At last came the night out on the
balcony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love--do you
remember it? You were advocating the cause of another; I asked you why
you did not speak for yourself. You must have known that my woman's
heart was on fire--you must have seen that my whole soul was in my
speech, yet you told me in cold, well-chosen words that you had only a
brother's affection for me. On that night, for the first time, I
realized the truth that, come what might, you would never love me--that
you had no idea of carrying out the old contract--that your interest in
me was simply a kindly, friendly one. On that night, when I realized
that truth, the better part of me died; my love--the love of my
life--died; my hopes--the life-long hopes--died; the best, truest,
noblest part of me died.
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