Brian remained silent, partly because he was still confused, and partly
to give Dierdre the chance to speak, which he felt instinctively she
would wish to seize.
She took a step forward, then stopped, with a sob, shamed tears stinging
her eyes. "Will you forgive me?" she begged. "I would rather have died
than hurt a blind man, or--or any one who loves a blind man. Lately I've
been finding out how sacred blindness is. I ought to have guessed,
Madame, that you were with him--that you were his wife. I ought to have
known that only a great grief could have turned your wonderful hair
white--you, so young----"
"Her hair white!" cried the blind officer. "No, I'll not believe it.
Suzanne, tell this lady she's mistaken. I remember, in some lights, it
was the palest gold, almost silver--your beautiful hair that I fell in
love with----"
His voice broke. No one answered. There fell a dead silence, and Dierdre
had time to realize what she had done. She had been cruel as the grave!
She had accused a helpless blind man of selfishness; and not content
with that, on top of all she had given away the secret that a brave
woman's love had hidden.
"Suzanne--you don't speak!"
"Oh!" the trembling woman tried to laugh. "Of course, Mademoiselle is
mistaken. That goes without saying."
"Yes--I--of _course_," Dierdre echoed. "It was the light--deceived me."
"And now," said the blind man slowly, "you are trying to deceive
_me_--you are both trying! Suzanne, why did you keep it from me that
your hair had turned white with grief? Didn't you know I'd love you
more, for such a proof of love for me?"
"Indeed, I--oh, you mustn't think----" she began to stammer.
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