On me this action--hers soothing, protective; his appealing,
welcoming--produced the most bewildering effect. I felt embarrassed and
abashed; an indecently impertinent intruder upon the secret places of
two human hearts. That any such intimate and tender correspondence
existed between this so strangely ill-assorted couple I never dreamed.
I uttered what must have sounded wildly incoherent farewells and fled.
Of the ensuing eighteen months of foreign travel it is irrelevant here
to speak. Suffice it that on my return to England and to Chelsea, the
earliest news which greeted me was that Arabella Lessingham had been
now five weeks married and Heber Pogson a fortnight dead. Lessingham,
dear, good fellow, was my informant, and minded acquainting me, so I
fancied, only a degree less with the first item than with the second.
For some considerable time, he told me, Pogson had been ailing. He grew
inordinately stout, unwieldy to the extent of all exertion, all
movement causing him distress. Suffocation threatened if he attempted
to lie down; so that, latterly, he spent not only all day, but all
night sitting in the big library chair we knew so well.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362