I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light
of the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil
afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over
thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a
smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes of the Flora of the old days,
absolutely unchanged.
In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn't
catch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person
in black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat
down at times in the room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the
time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had heard all the details which
really matter in this story. Between me and her who was once Flora de
Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly to the weather.
The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual
blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a
deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked:
"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs.
Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?"
"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless and I
wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It
was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her
brother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him."
She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh:
"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of
it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I only
discovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and
humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not put
it to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been too
proud. But I had to spare poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect,
but I felt as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry out.
Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my greatest grief. It was
distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night
when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of
discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against
my own heart! I could not."