After the reading there fell silence. Susan, her pallid face
and her luminous, inquiring violet eyes inscrutable, sat
gazing into vacancy. At last Doctor Stevens moved uneasily
and rose to go. Susan roused herself, accompanied him to the
adjoining room. Said the old doctor.
"I've told you about everybody. But you've told me nothing
about the most interesting Sutherlander of all--yourself."
Susan looked at him. And he saw the wound hidden from all the
world--the wound she hid from herself as much of the time as
she could. He, the doctor, the professional confessor, had
seen such wounds often; in all the world there is hardly a
heart without one. He said:
"Since sorrow is the common lot, I wonder that men can be so
selfish or so unthinking as not to help each other in every
way to its consolations. Poor creatures that we
are--wandering in the dark, fighting desperately, not knowing
friend from foe!"
"But I am glad that you saved me," said she.
"You have the consolations--success--fame--honor."
"There is no consolation," replied she in her grave sweet way.
"I had the best. I--lost him. I shall spend my life in
flying from myself."
After a pause she went on: "I shall never speak to anyone as
I have spoken to you. You will understand all. I had the
best--the man who could have given me all a woman seeks from
a man--love, companionship, sympathy, the shelter of strong
arms.
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