This gentle,
loving girl had felt it all to her soul and her nerves had given way
before the reality of it. He had been an idiot to tell the story in that
bald way. He should have gone about it more gently. He was not used to
women. He must learn better. Would she forgive him?
And now indeed he had her in his arms, although he was utterly unaware
of it. He was trying to comfort and soothe her, as he would soothe a
little child who had been frightened. Not only his handkerchief but his
hands were called into requisition to charm away those tears and comfort
the pitiful little face that looked so streaked and pink and helpless
there against his shoulder. He wanted to stoop and lay his lips on those
trembling ones. Perhaps Gila thought he would. But he would not take
advantage of her moment of helplessness. Not until she was herself and
could give him permission would he avail himself of that sacred
privilege. Now it was the part of a man to comfort her without any
element of self in the matter.
When he had drawn her down upon the couch again, with the sobs still
shaking her soft blue-and-white frilly breast, her blue-black hair all
damp and tossed upon her temples, and tried to tell her how sorry he was
that he had put her through the horrors of that fire, she put in a
quivering protest. It was _not_ the fire. She shivered. It was not the
horror and the smoke! It was _not_ Stephen's death, nor the danger to
himself! It was not _any_ of those that had unnerved her! It was that
other awful thing he had said: that ghostly, ghastly, uncanny, dreadful
story of a Presence! She almost shrieked again as she said it, and she
shivered away from him, as if still there were something cold and clammy
in his touch that gave her the horrors.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251