“To some of us such things are not given,” he said; “my children are down yonder—and yet——! I chose what I chose—when I was a lad.”
Marpasse seemed to be struggling to say something that would not shape itself into words.
“It is so lonely—sometimes,” and her eyes looked into the past; “dear heart, I have often spat at the thought of myself! It is always ‘the might have been,’ with some of us. The world often leers at a woman, Father, when it offers her a penny. I was just as tall as the harvest wheat when they pushed me out on the road. But I am not bad to the core, Father, though few people would think it the truth.”
She heard Grimbald draw his breath.
“The core of the world is a generous heart,” he said; “look at me, Marpasse. Many things might happen, but for what I am.”
He took Marpasse’s hands, held them a moment, and then dropped them reverently, looking at her to see that she understood. And these two brave souls gazed in each other’s eyes, knowing that they could come no nearer, and that their lives might cross but never travel the same road.
Yet Marpasse went out from the wood-shed into the sunlight with a smile upon her face, the smile of a woman who has re-discovered mystery in herself. A look of the eyes, a few words, a touch of the hands—that was all! Marpasse pressed her face between her two hands, and stood staring and staring away towards the distant woods. The scoffing voice was silent in her, the mouth strangely soft, the eyes the eyes of a young girl.
And Denise, who kissed her that night, as a woman who is loved kisses the woman who loves her, saw no shadow of sadness on the brave, brown face of Marpasse.
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