“But do you know, Claire,” she told the little stepmother, after she had finished the story of Chalmers’ visit and his strange zeal on Warren’s behalf, “it’s just as I told Kent: I can’t see how that woman’s husband can forgive her! Why, she——”
“You told Kent that?” asked the stepmother, oddly.
“Why, yes—why not?”
“Nothing. Except that—that woman’s husband is Kent. The woman, you see, was Farleigh.”
“Farleigh!” Patsy covered her face with her hands. “Oh, no—no! Not Farleigh, Claire!—why it couldn’t have touched Kent, a thing like that; it couldn’t, you know—and then you see he came here to plead for Warren. Oh, no, no, Claire—it couldn’t have been Farleigh!”
“The woman was Farleigh,” insisted the little stepmother, with gentle obstinacy.
“And I told him he couldn’t judge—that he was too much of an outsider, too remote——!” Patsy drew her hands down from her face, with a little sob. “I said ‘you’re too much of a dreamer’; and—oh, Claire!—Kent said ‘yes, you’ve hit it exactly! I’ve been too much of a dreamer!’” Patsy had dropped down on one of the big trunks, and was crying bitterly. There is no personal grief in the world as poignant as the pain one feels for a creature who bears his silently.
“But, Patsy—don’t cry so, dear”—into the older woman’s face had come a wonderful understanding sweetness—“don’t you see why Kent came here and talked to you that way? Don’t you see that it’s futile to be sorry for a man who loves as Kent can love?”
“You mean——?” Patsy sat up and dried her eyes.
“I mean—why do you suppose that Kent came here to-day to plead for Warren, Patsy?—to plead for his friend? Never in the world! He came to plead for the injury wrought his friend!—for the person who wrought the injury. Ah, my dear!—to be loved as Kent loves Farleigh——!” The silver-haired woman’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “It—it’s worth being wicked, just to find it out. It’s sublime!”