This blow, coming after she had been so happy, struck Phoebe Dale stupid
with grief. The line on her high forehead deepened; and at night she sat
with her hands before her, sighing, and sighing, and listening for the
footsteps that never came.
"Oh, Dick!" she said, "never you love any one. I am aweary of my life.
And to think that, but for that diamond--oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!"
Then Dick used to try and comfort her in his way, and often put his arm
round her neck, and gave her his rough but honest sympathy. Dick's rare
affection was her one drop of comfort; it was something to relieve her
swelling heart.
"Oh, Dick!" she said to him one night, "I wish I had married him."
"What, to be ill-used?"
"He couldn't use me worse. I have been wife, and mother, and sweetheart,
and all, to him; and to be left like this. He treats me like the dirt
beneath his feet."
"'Tis your own fault, Phoebe, partly. You say the word, and I'll break
every bone in his carcass."
"What, do him a mischief! Why, I'd rather die than harm a hair of his
head. You must never lift a hand to him, or I shall hate you."
"Hate ME, Phoebe?"
"Ay, boy: I should. God forgive me: 'tis no use deceiving ourselves;
when a woman loves a man she despises, never you come between them;
there's no reason in her love, so it is incurable.
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