An Interloper - Frances Mary Peard

She was looking at him with an infinite love, though she knew the truth of what he said. The roots of love did not run deep enough with him; he could not have done it—perhaps never would have force enough to do it. What of that? It is better to give than to receive. When life has gone so far, characters do not change suddenly, even when an earthquake has shaken them. They grow a little stronger, a little weaker; they fall and rise, or, alas, sometimes slip farther down the hill. We see the slips and hear the clatter of falling stones more quickly than we notice the gradual gain, inch by inch, which to clearer eyes than ours means all the difference.

And so, though some of her dreams had flown forever, and there were lines written on her face which no coming springs or summers could efface, Nathalie was happy. When Claire had talked of Léon having no soul, she was not far out, for something which he had not shown before had been born in him by the strength of his wife’s love. Life looked different to him; the rose-leaves with which he tried to cover it up had been swept away by the storm, scars were left, ugly chasms, rough stones. But, side by side, hand in hand, walked his wife.

The End.