When I came to myself on the third day, Helen was there. “Poor child!” I said, “your dream is over, but——”
“No! No!” she protested.
“Yes—I know your heart was set on that young fellow.”
“Everything is all right now that you are getting well,” she replied, and would not let me say anything more.
In two weeks I was well enough to go about again as before. I found that Delamotte had defied his father and was only waiting for me to consent. For Helen’s sake, I yielded. Why blame the boy? Why make my child wretched? Let them have the chance I never had. Or, did I have it and throw it away? No matter. To sacrifice them to revenge would be petty.
Petty! What is not petty to me, seated in front of The Great Fact?
I must rearrange my will properly to provide for Helen.
How small and repulsive it all is to me!—all that has seemed so stupendous these forty years. I am worn out. If I have not the courage to die, still less have I the courage to go on—or the interest. I want rest.
They tell me—what they always tell a man in my straits. But they know better—and so do I!
Nor do I care.