I went up the stairs, my feet laden. But I could not let her know that I
was defeated. I would not let her know how profoundly, in reality, her
words had reached. I held my head high as I progressed on my ascending. I
closed the door of my room behind me, and I laid my head against it,
closing my lids against the shrieking reality. She had said that she loved
me. And although I had been waiting to hear those words come from her
cherry lips for—oh how long! I didn't want it to be this way. Or maybe I
wasn't responding as expected. I should have run into her arms and tell her
that I loved her also?
No
The fiery passion that had swept my feet, heart, mind, and soul every time I saw her was dulled. Or totally gone. In her face, today, I had seen many emotions swirl. And I had seen love written plainly in it too. Love for Melanie, love for me. And I had looked at her, feeling nothing, leaving her behind. And I didn't repent of my decision.
She had come a long way from that sixteen year old brat who only had to pout to get whatever she wanted. She had toiled through many hardships, been burdened with loads that were not her own, and pulled through, arising like a magnificent woman, indifferent with life, almost without fear. And I had waited all those years for her to come. To come to me.
I had held her during those hours where she didn't dare go back to sleep, facing the nightmare waiting for her at the closing of her lids. The nightmare that she dreaded would clutch her in its misty claws and pull her in for once and for all. On those nights, when her trembling body would be pressed against mine, I would want to tell her that everything would be all right, that I was there beside her, kissing away her fears.
I had waited patiently, seeing her suffering from afar, always putting before her an indifferent face to the hardships of life, speaking cool words that would be a freshening balm to her hot, open wounds of terror. I brought her presents when I knew that disheartening would be creeping up to her mind and heart. I brought her jeering notes when I knew that her wild spirit was about to be tamed, to be put out.
And my patience was rewarded when I saw her rise again, her feral spirit a scarlet stain against the dreary gray of the Old Guard. Her green eyes flashing against the monotony of what life had become. Old stories and old traditions didn't matter to her, she moved with Time. She moved on and didn't look back, leaving everything that she had once been behind.
If I had not been confident of my love for her before, when I saw her again all doubt vanished. Pride for her had swelled inside me, as if her accomplishments had been mine also, mixing them with admiration. She was one of a kind, as unique a person as you would wish to see. In her were barely cultivated the manners of a lady with the dignity that was impassable, the wildness of an Irish grace, and the proud, patient pace of a Robillard; the mixing of sedate movements and wild excitement weakly lashed in. She was as much an O'Hara as she would ever be a Robillard.
I had loved her as much as Mrs. Melanie Wilkes had loved her. Hers had been an ignorant love, totally pure and innocent, not knowing the scarlet stains of her sister-in-law. Mine had been a lenient and tolerant love.
Knowing, understanding, wanting, and loving those scarlet stains had been my cross, as hers had been to have Melanie's complete and steadfast devotion.
And now, with those scarlet stains belonging to me, I wasn't sure anymore of what I wanted. Those stains were downstairs, completing the picture of a green eyed beauty that had gained the whole world and lost her own soul. An Irish jaw and obstinacy as hard as death itself; green eyes that had only one fear: solitude. The picture of the woman had been finally completed. And I no longer wished for it.
No
The fiery passion that had swept my feet, heart, mind, and soul every time I saw her was dulled. Or totally gone. In her face, today, I had seen many emotions swirl. And I had seen love written plainly in it too. Love for Melanie, love for me. And I had looked at her, feeling nothing, leaving her behind. And I didn't repent of my decision.
She had come a long way from that sixteen year old brat who only had to pout to get whatever she wanted. She had toiled through many hardships, been burdened with loads that were not her own, and pulled through, arising like a magnificent woman, indifferent with life, almost without fear. And I had waited all those years for her to come. To come to me.
I had held her during those hours where she didn't dare go back to sleep, facing the nightmare waiting for her at the closing of her lids. The nightmare that she dreaded would clutch her in its misty claws and pull her in for once and for all. On those nights, when her trembling body would be pressed against mine, I would want to tell her that everything would be all right, that I was there beside her, kissing away her fears.
I had waited patiently, seeing her suffering from afar, always putting before her an indifferent face to the hardships of life, speaking cool words that would be a freshening balm to her hot, open wounds of terror. I brought her presents when I knew that disheartening would be creeping up to her mind and heart. I brought her jeering notes when I knew that her wild spirit was about to be tamed, to be put out.
And my patience was rewarded when I saw her rise again, her feral spirit a scarlet stain against the dreary gray of the Old Guard. Her green eyes flashing against the monotony of what life had become. Old stories and old traditions didn't matter to her, she moved with Time. She moved on and didn't look back, leaving everything that she had once been behind.
If I had not been confident of my love for her before, when I saw her again all doubt vanished. Pride for her had swelled inside me, as if her accomplishments had been mine also, mixing them with admiration. She was one of a kind, as unique a person as you would wish to see. In her were barely cultivated the manners of a lady with the dignity that was impassable, the wildness of an Irish grace, and the proud, patient pace of a Robillard; the mixing of sedate movements and wild excitement weakly lashed in. She was as much an O'Hara as she would ever be a Robillard.
I had loved her as much as Mrs. Melanie Wilkes had loved her. Hers had been an ignorant love, totally pure and innocent, not knowing the scarlet stains of her sister-in-law. Mine had been a lenient and tolerant love.
Knowing, understanding, wanting, and loving those scarlet stains had been my cross, as hers had been to have Melanie's complete and steadfast devotion.
And now, with those scarlet stains belonging to me, I wasn't sure anymore of what I wanted. Those stains were downstairs, completing the picture of a green eyed beauty that had gained the whole world and lost her own soul. An Irish jaw and obstinacy as hard as death itself; green eyes that had only one fear: solitude. The picture of the woman had been finally completed. And I no longer wished for it.