Or, if he must surrender to the throbbing, unbidden memories which came
crowding in hordes to carry him by the suddenness of their assault, that
he learn to curb and subdue and direct them in pity toward that
hopeless, helpless, stricken creature who was so utterly dependent upon
him in her dreadful isolation.
And he could not so direct them.
Loyal in act and deed, his thoughts betrayed him. Memories, insurgent,
turned on him to stab him; and he shrank from them, cowering among his
pillows at midnight. But memory is merciless, and what has been is
without pity; and so remembrance rose at midnight from its cerements,
like a spectre, floating before his covered eyes, wearing the shape of
youth and love, crowned with the splendour of _her_ hair, looking at him
out of those clear, sweet eyes whose gaze was purity and truth eternal.
And truth is truth, though he might lie with hands clinched across his
brow to shut out the wraith of it that haunted him; though he might set
his course by the faith that was in him, and put away the hope of the
world--whose hope is love--the truth was there, staring, staring at him
out of Eileen Erroll's dark-blue eyes.
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