Читать книгу: «Tales from Many Sources. Vol. V», страница 7
It was very cold, and Betty could not sleep; in vain she turned from side to side, in vain she drank water and paced her room, and tried all the devices known to the sleepless—all was fruitless; her pillow seemed to her on fire, and incessantly in her imagination she heard the galloping of horses so vividly, that she rose several times and went to the window; but the night was clear, and the moon bright, and all over the country lay one sheet of untrodden snow.
She lay down once more, and about three o'clock was roused suddenly by a light tap, as of something which hit her window.
She went to it hastily, and as she did so, another light pebble hit the panes. She opened the casement and looked out. Below in the garden in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, she saw standing a slight woman's figure.
The figure held up a warning hand to be silent and come down.
Betty was bold and fearless, she put on her clothes hastily, and went down. She went into the garden at once, and looked cautiously round. There was no one to be seen at first.
She waited in some amazement, when suddenly she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and looking round, saw standing beside her Nora Ray, the young gipsy girl, looking more wild and elf-like than usual.
"Hist!" said the strange child. "I have brought you a token from one whom you know so well. His day is over," she cried with a wild grin, showing all her white teeth. "The ravens are feasting on Wild Jack's tender flesh to-night. See here is the token; he gave it to me at the foot of the gallows with his own hand."
With a sob Betty took it from the girl's brown hand—her own little serpent-ring that he had taken from her that night that seemed so long ago.
"It shall never again leave my finger," she said. "God rest his soul."
"You will cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, pretty lady," cried Nora. "He never failed to do so to poor Nora Ray, not he!"
Betty quickly went into the house, gave her money, and let her out of the gate—the wild creature had come in over the wall—then she went slowly up to her room.
She leant out of the open window, her brow burning in spite of the cold.
Suddenly came on her ear the wild sound of Nora's singing, with its strange pathos like the sighing of the wind, or the cry of storm-tossed sea-birds.
Betty clasped her hands, and sank on her knees, the sound made her shudder from head to foot. She stopped her ears with trembling fingers, but yet every word fell on them distinctly and would not be shut out.
"Aye, call him, call him over the lea,
Aye, well and well-a-day;
Lover will never come back to thee
Who loves and gallops away."
CHAPTER VII
"How pale you are this morning, my child," said Mr. Ives to his daughter.
"It is nothing. I have had a feverish night; the story of the fate of my poor friend haunted me," she answered. She could not eat, the cold had chilled her blood, and now and then she shivered painfully.
Betty sought her opportunity in spite of her bodily discomforts, and fondly caressing her father's hands she knelt down by his chair.
"Father," she said. "Dear father, you know that very soon I am going to leave you, to be married to my own true love. Our wedding-day is fixed, but I dare say he will not be back much before then. Do you think he will? Oh no, probably not."
"Why, child, to be sure he will! He will be back in a few days at the outside. Why, silly child, you will make a poor wife if you fret always when your husband is from home."
"But I do not fret. I am perfectly satisfied. Listen, dear father: when I am married and gone away with my dear love, you will look round you and see only my empty place, no hand to hold yours, no voice to welcome you, no music to cheer you, no child to love you."
"Betty," cried Mr. Ives with a sob, "why do you show me so dismal a picture? It is bad enough already."
"I have a good reason, dear father," she said. "You see I am going so soon. I should leave you with so much lighter a heart were Mary here to take my place. She is kind and good, and true, and would love you dearly."
Mr. Ives laughed a little.
"Mistress Mary is somewhat old to replace my daughter," he said.
"Then the more suited to be your wife."
Mr. Ives rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped, and catching his daughter's hands, looked her full in the face.
"Would she have me, my Bet?" he said. "I may not be too old to wed, but I am vastly too old to woo."
"She will have you, father," answered Betty. "And you will be quite happy when I am gone."
So all was settled, and the elderly pair pledged to each other. The banns were asked in church that their marriage might take place at once when John Johnstone should take his bride away.
Days passed on, days lengthened into weeks, the wedding-day drew near, and the bridegroom came not.
All Betty's high courage came back, the frost melted away, and the country was open again, and once more she rode to hounds. Her colour was high, her lips feverishly scarlet, her eyes large and brilliant. She rode with the best, and came home with the brush at her pommel.
"Why do they look at me so strangely, father?" she asked. "Old Squire Thornton, when he welcomed my return to the hunt, held my hand a whole minute in his, and it was as if he were about to speak, for he swallowed once or twice and then turned away. And Doctor Glebe would not speak to me at all, and his face was set as a mask, though I saw that he was watching me strangely all the time. Have I changed? Am I not the same Betty I used to be?"
"The same, only a little thinner, my darling," her father answered, and his eyes filled with tears.
He too had grown curiously sad of late, and followed his daughter with wistful eyes.
"Father," she said one day, "to-morrow you know is our wedding-day. John will come home, he must return to-night. I know that he will. I shall wait up till the clock strikes twelve, but if he does not come (and of course no one can tell how long business may detain him, can they?), one thing, dear father: will you take Mary to church, even though I should not be there, and marry her? She might wear my wedding-gown. To please me, father, to please me?"
"Anything, anything to please you, my own child," said Mr. Ives in a choked voice.
All day Betty wandered in the garden; they watched her wistfully, her head was raised, always listening—listening to every sound.
The hours passed, evening came, the night fell. Betty had thrown wide the casement. Her father and Mary Jones, crouching over the fire, had no heart to speak to her, or warn her that the night was cold.
A wild stormy wind swayed the branches of the apple-trees, surging and roaring as it rushed over the downs; the candles flickered and burned low, and from them dropped those strange waxen off-shoots that old women call winding-sheets.
At last the church-bell struck twelve, slowly, awfully.
Betty was listening still, her head raised, her finger on her lip.
"Hush!" she said, with a strange smile. "Do you hear the white horse's hoofs?"
They listened. Distinctly on the ear came the sound of a horse galloping, coming nearer and nearer, passing the door, on and on without pause, the sound of the hoofs growing faint and fainter till lost in the far distance.
Betty held out her arms. "Mary!" she said. "Mary!" Her voice was a strange harsh whisper, out of which all tone had passed. "Mary, he gallops away."
CHAPTER VIII
After the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there should be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp or parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they returned home man and wife.
The only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr. Glebe, and he returned with them to the parsonage because he had a few serious words that he wished to say there.
He took Mr. Ives aside, and said abruptly, "Are you mad, Ives? Do you wish to lose that peerless daughter of yours? I warn you that you will do so, if you are not more watchful."
"I would give my life for hers," answered her father sorrowfully. "And so would Mary, who loves her dearly, but alas! what can we do? We cannot bring back John Johnstone."
"You must send her away at once. She must have change of air and scene. At once, mark you, without an hour's unnecessary delay."
"You think it will do her good?"
"I think it the one chance of escaping fatal mischief. See, I have a plan to propose. Why not send her to Newbury to her aunt? She is a sensible woman, and the house is full of children—they will rouse her."
"I will take her myself," cried Mr. Ives.
"Nay, nay, that would defeat my object. I want absolute change for her, change of thought, scene, companions."
"But how manage it, if I may not go myself?"
"Squire Thornton rides to Newbury tomorrow with Sir Harry Clare, and he will willingly be her protector."
"They ride?"
"Yes, it will do Betty good to ride, and old Isaac can follow with a valise full of clothes."
"Tomorrow did you say?"
"Tomorrow at daybreak."
"It shall be done. God grant that it may do her good."
The following morning, with many a tear and many a blessing Mr. Ives and his wife started Betty on her way.
She made no resistance, passively assented to all they wished. When she was once more in the saddle, her spirits rose feverishly again.
Sir Harry Clare, riding by her side, felt the old fascination stealing over him again, the fascination that had well nigh broken Lady Rachel's heart at Newbury last year. Squire Thornton saw her bright color, and heard the old lively talk as of old, and thought how that time cures all things, and that perhaps in the days to come, his son might have a chance at last.
About half way on their journey the little party was joined by two gentlemen who reached the highway by a cross-road; they lived far from the Wancote neighbourhood. The one Sir James Templemore, the other Mr. Mat Harding.
Squire Thornton was glad to meet with friends so rarely encountered; they had secrets together mayhap. They saluted each other cordially, their greeting of Sir Harry Clare was more cold.
It was a gloomy windy day, and after the midday halt to bait their horses, the weather grew worse, a cold violent wind blew in their faces, now and then a driving shower of rain.
"Are you tired, Mistress Betty?" asked the squire.
"No, no, I enjoy the free fresh air, it gives me new life."
"That is well," he said, riding on well pleased.
The two cavaliers who attended Betty on each side were the new arrivals, both of whom appeared much struck by her exceeding beauty.
Now it seemed almost as if they entered into a cloud, so dark it became, so blinded were they by wind and a fresh storm of cold fine rain. The horses grew subdued, they whinnied and held down their tails tightly. It was very cold.
They moved into a short trot, but pulled up soon, breathless.
The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and now Betty became aware of some tall dark object looming in front of her, only as yet half visible. The wind howled past, and distinctly she heard a sort of clanking noise, as of chains or the rattling of something hard clanking together.
"Let us ride on, let us ride fast." cried Squire Thornton in his loud hearty voice. As he spoke there was a whirr of loud wings, and a dark cloud of foul birds rose into the air from off that dark thing.
Betty put out her hand and laid it on Sir James Templemore's arm.
"What is it?" she said in a ghastly whisper.
"Ah, a sad sight indeed," said he sadly. "There hangs as noble a gentleman as ever drew sword for the king, God bless him."
"Who is it?" she asked again; the whisper came hissing forth.
"Who? God rest his soul, he had many names. He was Wild Jack Barnstaple, alias John Johnstone of Belton, alias Daredevil Jack of the North."
"For the sake of all that is sacred, hold your tongue!" shouted the squire, who had caught the last words.
He was too late. With a wild hoarse cry that none who heard it ever forgot, Betty flung wide her arms, and fell back on her saddle. The terrified horse galloped furiously forward, throwing her from side to side, then violently to the ground at the foot of the gallows.
In horror the gentlemen surrounded her, and raised her inanimate form between them.
But it was long and very late before they could get her home.
After long hours her body awoke to life, but her brain was gone. Heartbroken, mind gone, in very sooth mad, what remained for sweet Betty now.
Travellers passing by would point to the parsonage wall, and sorrowfully tell her story. Some more curious than the rest would perhaps stop to look through the gate.
A strange sight met their eyes.
As beautiful as ever, with a strange fearful beauty, stood Betty, her hands hanging clasped before her, and she sang to herself softly, dreamily:
"Call him, call him over the lea,
Aye, well and well-a-day;
Lover will never come back to thee
Who loves and gallops away."
Then she put her hands to her mouth as men do who wish that their voices should carry far, and called over and over again slowly, "John Johnstone! John Johnstone!"—the last syllable rising loud on a long high note.
Then she would hold up her finger, and bend her head listening, listening, listening, till she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs come nearer and nearer, passing and fading away.
Those who watched with her in the dark evenings in the walled garden swore that they also heard the sound, and their hair bristled with cold fear.
VIRGINIA
PART I
"He is a very strange mixture."
"I really do not think you ought to ask him to the house. An atheist, a man of disreputable life, a–."
"Come, come, my dear, don't give him such a character, before Virginia."
This fragment of dialogue takes place over a cheery breakfast table in a house not very far from Park Lane.
The first speaker is a pleasant-looking man of between fifty and sixty, and his interlocutor is a rather prim lady, who appears older, but is, in reality, his junior by two years. They are Mr. Hamilton Hayward and his sister, Miss Susan.
The party has a third member—the Virginia alluded to by Mr. Hayward. She is tall, handsome, bright-looking; evidently she possesses character, but with it the grace and charm of manner which prevent a woman of character from falling into that disagreeable being, a strong-minded woman.
"What are Mr. Vansittart's good points?" she says, smiling at her uncle.
"He has the kindest heart in the world," Mr. Hayward replies, warmly, "and he would never do a shabby thing. One of the few men who really practice not letting their left hand know the good their right does. He certainly is a looseish fish; but he does not parade his irregularities before the world—the world need not know anything about them if it does not insist on prying into his affairs. The greatest grudge women have against him is that he is mortally opposed to marriage, and carries on a crusade against it as though he were St. George, and matrimony the Dragon. He says if you want to make two people hate each other who would otherwise be disposed to love—"
"Hush! my dear Hamilton," cries Miss Susan, horrified. "Pray spare us a repetition of Mr. Vansittart's iniquitous opinions."
"I suppose," laughs Virginia, "that women don't insist on marrying him by force, do they?"
"A great many would be very glad to have him," rejoins Mr. Hamilton, "he is a tremendously taking fellow."
"And have you really asked him to dinner?" interposes Miss Susan.
"I have, indeed, my dear, and I had a good deal of difficulty in persuading him to come. He persisted that he went so little into society—into ladies' society."
Miss Susan gave a little snort.
"He has no right to go into it at all with the views he holds; and, pray, whom is he to take in to dinner?"
"Mrs. Ashton, I thought," answers Mr. Hamilton. "I am afraid he would be bored with an unmarried lady."
"When I was young," says Miss Susan, bridling, "married women were as modest and particular in their conversation as unmarried ones."
"Ah!" observes her brother dryly.
"Uncle," cries Virginia, "let him take me. If he is original, I shall be sure to like him; and as I don't intend to marry, he need not be afraid of my having designs on him. I shall give him a hint whilst he is eating his soup that I have made a vow to coiffer Ste. Catherine."
"Virginia!" remonstrates Miss Susan; "and you know Sir Harry Hotspur is to take you."
"No, no," cries Virginia, "he bores me to distraction. Besides," laughing, "he 'goes for married women.' Let him have Mrs. Ashton, and give me Mr. Vansittart."
Miss Susan has one virtue, which is, that she is never quite so shocked as she pretends to be. Moreover, Virginia always gets her way with both uncle and aunt. So when the evening of the dinner party arrives, Mr. Hayward brings Mr. Vansittart up to his niece and introduces him. Whilst he is uttering a few of those banalités which must inevitably be the precursors of even the most interesting conversation between two strangers, Virginia is taking an inventory of him. He is tall, rather dark than fair; his features are well cut, and he has particularly expressive eyes, the color of which it takes her some time to decide about. At the same moment he is saying to himself: "What sort of woman is this, and what on earth shall I talk to her about? I hope to heaven she isn't a girl of the period. She doesn't look like it—still less like a prude. How I hate a society dinner! I suppose I shall be bored to death, as usual."
True to her promise, Virginia apprises him, whilst he yet is assimilating his soup, of her vow of celibacy. He turns to look at her, being just a shade surprised at receiving such a confidence so early in their acquaintance, and then he sees the archest smile curving the corners of her mouth, and meets a glance from a pair of brown eyes that he now perceives to be beautiful.
Mr. Vansittart has a quick intelligence—he understands in an instant the object of her remark. His eyes light up with a sudden gleam, and he murmurs quietly, "Thanks so much for putting me at my ease."
From that moment they are perfectly at home with each other, and fall to animated talk. He does not air his theories about marriage, nor is religion discussed between them, but there are plenty of other topics, and they become aware of a dozen feelings and sympathies in common. Virginia is as bright and witty as she is modest and pure-minded; there is nothing in the world that Mr. Vansittart detests so much as a coarse or immodest lady. So charmed is he with Virginia, that he remains close to her side the whole evening, to the surprise of every one else. No one ever saw him devote himself to a girl before. He stays until the very last. As he walks away from the door, after lighting his cigar, he reflects to himself: "If any earthly power could induce me to marry, it would be a girl like that. But," resolutely, "nothing could." As Virginia wends her way upstairs to bed, she says to herself with a heavy sigh, "Why should he abuse marriage? How happy he might make some woman!"
Virginia is the daughter of a clergyman. Father and mother are both dead. She has a brother in the army, and a sister married to a country rector. Her uncle, Mr. Hayward, has adopted her. She is clever and accomplished. She has both passion and imagination. Some of her ideas are original; she hates common-placeness, but she is also imbued with the attribute possessed by every charming woman, the love of approbation. This prevents her doing or saying anything outre or unconventional; this makes her careful of her appearance and fond of fair apparel; this makes the evidence of admiration from the other sex exceedingly agreeable to her; this causes her to adopt a manner towards them that induces jealous women to call her a coquette. She has had several offers of marriage, but she entertains peculiar ideas about the strength of passion and the sympathy of thought a man and woman ought to feel for each other before they decide to spend a life-time together. She does not think a man who has a good income, and who is simply not repulsive or abhorrent to her, a sufficient inducement.
The days wear on. Virginia does not forget Mr. Vansittart any more than he forgets her, but he weighs more on her heart than she does on his, for, happy man! he is perpetually occupied, being a barrister with a considerable practice, whilst she is an idle woman as the well-to-do of her sex mostly are. If she goes to balls or dances, she is always contrasting every man, with whom she talks or dances, with him; if she works at her embroidery, her thoughts are intent on him; if she reads, a hero of her own ousts the hero of the novel from her brain; if she sings, her voice is moved to strong pathos; her eyes become drowned by that strange passion which consumes her. Days and weeks pass by; and she does not catch a glimpse of him; does not even hear his name. She sees it frequently in the Times. One Sunday afternoon, she and her uncle strolling in the Park meet him. He lifts his hat, and is about to pass, when something that her eyes have communicated to his heart, stops him suddenly. He turns and joins them. It is a delicious summer afternoon: they take chairs under the big trees which shade this cool green spot. Presently a crony joins Mr. Hayward—soon the elder pair are deep in the cause célèbre of the day. Virginia and Mr. Vansittart have forgotten that other people exist in the world—the topics of their conversation are ordinary enough, but it is not from them that a subtle delight steals through their veins. What they heed is the language of each other's eyes. His say—"You fulfil my idea of perfect womanhood. I could love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength. I respect you with my purest feelings; I love you with my strongest passions; I would to God I could shake off my doubts about marriage. But I know that if I married you, inexorable Destiny would no longer let us love one another."
And her eyes reiterate one little sentence, "You are my lord, my master, and I am your slave."
It was one of the very strongest cases of love at first sight. Such cases are more common, however, than people affect to think.
"Come home and dine with us," says Mr. Hayward, as a distant clock strikes seven.
"I'm afraid I have not time to dress," replies Philip Vansittart; "that is if you dine at half past seven, as I have heard you say you do."
"Never mind about dress," answers Mr. Hayward. "I won't dress either."
He has no designs on his guest, but he is a good-natured gentleman, and he sees that these two are attracted toward each other.
Miss Susan is at church. If her brother will dine at his usual hour on Sunday, she cannot help it, but she will not countenance him by her presence.
Philip Vansittart thinks he has never spent such a divinely happy evening as this. Virginia sings to him; her voice thrills to his very soul. Mr. Hamilton is asleep in the next room. As for Virginia, when she is alone, she first smiles a happy, triumphant smile, because she knows he loves her, and then she bursts into a passion of tears and sobs until her whole frame is convulsed. If his mind is really set against marriage, what will become of her! She feels as though life without him must be one long night of despair.
Philip Vansittart paces his room until the small hours, thinking of this charming, lovable creature, who inspires stronger, deeper sensations in him than he has ever felt before. He tells himself, without vanity or self-deception, that what he feels for her, with that difference which governs the loves of men and women, she feels for him—heart has gone out to heart, nay, they are twain halves of a perfect heart. It is but for him to stretch out his hand to her, and she will come. Aye! but how can he stretch out his hand? In the society in which they both move there is but one way in which she can be his—the way sanctioned by society, blessed by the church. Society and the church will bless and smile upon any union: the decrepit old man with the blooming child; the drunkard and adulterer with the pure young girl; the avaricious youth with the doting old woman. Marriage purifies, sanctifies, hallows sensuality, greed, any, every base motive. To love as God made you free to love, unfettered, and with a true heart, is a crime; to live together full of hatred, loathing, and revolt, is to perform a sacred duty once you have tied yourself up in church. This was Vansittart's theory. Marriage to him was only another word for satiety, weariness, restraint, tyranny. He had never seen what he called a happy marriage, though he had observed many which the world crowned with that adjective, and he had sworn a thousand oaths that he would never subject himself to that miserable awakening which inevitably follows the temporary sleep of mind and reason, and the short dream of passion which makes a man bind himself with shackles.
Philip paced his room for hours, fighting the hardest battle he had ever fought. It was the first time he had ever been tempted to marry—tempted beyond endurance. And, at last, ashen pale, in the wan morning light, and with set teeth, he took his final oath and resolve. He would save himself years of wretchedness by a month's anguish; he would not go near her, nor see her again. He was not entirely selfish; he did not forget that she might, nay, would suffer, but he said, with a sigh, "It will be best for her as for me."
A month passed by: two months. Virginia grew pale, listless, distraite; her step was languid, her eye haggard. She did not know how to endure her life; she suffered torments day and night from an agonising desire to hear the voice, to meet the eyes again which had given light to her soul and in whose absence she felt it must needs perish of want. It was plain enough to her why he avoided her. He had seen that she loved him; he would not encourage false hopes in her breast. Had she not been warned, ere ever she met him, that he abjured marriage? She remembered, with a breaking heart, her own first playful words to him.
Mr. Hayward saw the change in Virginia, but he put it down entirely to the effects of a London season—to late hours and the want of fresh air. Never mind! the end was near at hand, and then they would go and fill their lungs with mountain air and their eyes with fair scenes, and the roses would come back to her cheeks and lips, and the light to her eyes. He never for an instant connected his niece's pallor with Philip Vansittart. He would have ridiculed the idea of people being twice in each other's company, and breaking their hearts with longing afterwards.
Mr. Hayward, his sister, and Virginia, were dining at a Swiss table d'hote. Exactly opposite were two empty places. The fish had been served, and two gentlemen came in and took them. One was Mr. Philip Vansittart. At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia's cheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale. For a moment she thought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings. Philip was scarcely less moved, though, being a man, he was better able to control his agitation. When he had time to look more narrowly at Virginia, he saw a mighty change in her. His heart smote him; and yet—had he not suffered? Great heaven! had his been a bed of roses? Had he not agonised after her?
Dinner over, the party went off into the garden. A mutual unspoken desire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded spot. Twilight was creeping on—the last glow of a rosy sunset was fading away; the strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them. Vansittart felt his passion mastering him. He made a herculean effort over himself. He would speak. He would tell her the truth. After that she would forget him. They were sitting under a tree that screened them off from the rest of the garden. He could see well enough that she was trembling with nervousness; that delight, fear, expectation were blended in the beautiful eyes she turned towards him; and, lest suddenly he should yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to speak hurriedly—abruptly.
But Virginia scarcely hears him. Her lips are burning to ask him that one question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she turns and in a tremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says:
"Why have you kept away from us all this time?"
Why? And Vansittart catches his breath. Then the gyves of his strong will give way as the withes fell from Samson.
"I will tell you," he says. "I love you so horribly, that it is pain and anguish to me to be with you, for then I feel that when I leave you I am ready to die of longing and misery."
"Well?" she utters in a very low voice, bending her eyes on the ground. It is only one little word, but it speaks such volumes! "Why should you leave me?" it says. "Is it not my case, too? What need you more than speak!"
"You have heard," he goes on, not daring to look at her, "that I have forsworn marriage. Marriage," passionately, "kills love, and I would rather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered—and God knows that is not a little!–than a day should come when, having known such divine happiness as I should know were you mine, we should grow cold and weary; when our passions should turn to indifference, to disappointment and heart-burnings, and end, perhaps, in our cherishing feelings of vindictive spite and bitterness against each other, and in my thinking every woman pleasanter and fairer than you, end in your believing me to be the greatest brute under heaven!"
"Oh!" utters Virginia, as she raises her eyes to his face with a look of pained wonder.
"I have seen it a thousand times," he continues vehemently. "I have known men passionately, madly in love with women, ready to count 'the world well lost,' to sacrifice all the future only to call that idol of the moment theirs. I have seen them marry. I have watched the weariness that comes from security even more than from satiety. I have seen the links that were forged in roses become gyves of iron—tenderness and courtesy give place to rudeness and contempt. I never saw but two people perfectly happy, and they," lowering his voice, "were not married. I have sworn a thousand times never to court wretchedness for myself and a woman I loved by loading her and myself with chains. My idea has been this. Some day I may meet with a being who, under natural circumstances, she keeping her freedom and leaving me mine, I might love with all my heart and be faithful to until the day of my death. I would give her all I possessed. I would devote myself to making her happy; if she had to sacrifice anything for my sake, I would atone to her for it by my unwearying love. But," his voice mastered by emotion, "how dare I say such words to you? In the sphere in which you live they would be considered a dastardly insult—one must not dare to move one step from the beaten track of custom. The world would scoff at the idea that my love for you is more sacred and reverent than that of a man who, inspired by a momentary passion for a woman and desiring her, obtains his end by a simple and speedy means, without reflection as to the possible misery of both in the future. And yet," his lips quivering, his face growing deathly white, "I believe I could love you more dearly, love you longer than husband ever loved wife."
