"I knew he was not well," she said; "I feared it might be worse.
Let me tell you this: no one knows him as I do. I must speak
plainly. First, there was his trouble; that shadowed for
him one ideal in his life. Then this drove him to a kind of
self-concealment; and that wounded another ideal--his love of
candor. Then he asked me to marry him, and he told me the truth
about himself and I turned him off. Then came the scandals that
tried to take away his good name, and I suppose have taken it away.
And then, through all this, were the sufferings he was causing
others around him, and the loss of his mother. I have lived
through all these things with him while I have been away, and I
understand; they sap life. I am going up to write to him now,
and will you post the letter to-night? I wish him to come to
see me at once, and our marriage must take place as soon as
possible--here--very quietly."
Rowan came the next afternoon. She was in the library; and he
went in and shut the door, and they were left alone.
Professor Hardage and Miss Anna sat in an upper room. He had no
book and she had no work; they were thinking only of the two
downstairs. And they spoke to each other in undertones, breaking
the silence with brief sentences, as persons speak when awaiting
news from sick-rooms.
Daylight faded. Outside the lamplighter passed, torching the grimy
lamps. Miss Anna spoke almost in a whisper: "Shall I have some
light sent in?"
"No, Anna.
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