"No, Evelyn, you only know me as I _seem_"--he spoke mildly,
humbly--"not as I _am_. I am not a very bad man, Evelyn, nor even a very
weak one; in all respects, vile as I appear to you, only a very unhappy
wretch, and as such entitled to your respectful compassion at least--all
I dare ask for now. I will not receive your scorn as my fit guerdon. Is
there no strength in overcoming inclination as I have done, in
compelling words of affection to flow from loathing lips?--for those
scars alone, Evelyn, in contrast to your speckless beauty, would of
themselves be enough to shock a fastidious man like me, those hideous
livid scars which I have yet to behold, and shudder over, marking one
whole side as you assure me of neck, shoulder, and arm, things that in
woman are of such inestimable value, of almost more importance than the
divine face itself."
"Yes, but the other side is statuesque enough to satisfy the
requisitions of a sensuous sculptor," she rejoined, coldly; "you are
wrong, Claude, let us be just! Miriam is very well formed, to say no
more, and her skin is like a magnolia-leaf, where sun and wind have not
touched or tanned it; then those scars will turn white after a while
like the rest, and perhaps scarcely be visible."
"O Heavens! hideous white seams!" he exclaimed, passionately. "I have
seen such, like small-pox marks, only ten times more frightful and
indelible.
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