“And why pretend?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You have to—in lots of things. I suppose we women were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, and they expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet they would be hurt and miserable if we told them so—so we have to pretend.”
Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, and then she bent down—Yvonne was on a low stool by her side—and flung her arms about her.
“Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved a man—and married him! That is happiness—no need of pretending. I knew it once—years ago. It only lasted a few months, for he died before we announced our marriage—no one has ever known. Only you, now, dear. Try and love your husband, dear—give him your soul and passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to help you, dear. Then all the troubles will go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently—they say it is a woman’s greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the greatest blessing of God on her.”
“You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a whisper, holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew before—but God will never bless me—like that.”
CHAPTER XI—THE OUTCAST COUSIN
The autumn hardened into winter and the winter softened into spring, and the relations between Yvonne and the Canon seemed to follow the seasons’ difference. He had learned her limitations and no longer set her tasks beyond her powers.
“You must not try to put a butterfly into harness,” said Mrs. Winstanley, who had gradually been gaining lost influence. He had called to consult her upon some parochial question and the talk had turned upon Yvonne. The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into the habit of making confidences and regretting them a moment afterwards.