Читать книгу Wintersmoon онлайн

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Wildherne was only seventeen and, weakened by his long illness, looked the small child that, in many ways, he still was. His father held him tight to his heart that night. Who could know for how many years he had been longing with passionate desire for this?

"Remember your mother is the best woman I have ever known or am likely to know. Without her I should be nothing. I love her, Wildherne, as I hope one day you will love some fine woman—but at the end of it, in spite of the most perfect intimacy, we are alone—always, every one of us. It is the condition of life."

Wildherne went up to Balliol; his uncle died, and his father became Duke. He did all the things that his companions did. He was considered "a jolly good fellow. Not stuck up at all. A bit absent-minded." He rowed in his College boat, took a second in Greats. He came down having many acquaintances and not one friend. For his exterior self, which he gave readily to anyone, he cared so little that friendship could not possibly go with it. His interior self he gave only to his father.