I had no wish either to mortify or wound the man I had loved so
tenderly, but from whom I felt now wholly severed, as though the shadow
of a grave had intervened between us.
Never again, never, could he be more to me than a memory, a regret.
Glaring faults, impulsive offenses, _crime_ even it may be, I could have
forgiven, so long as his allegiance had been mine, and his affection
proof against change, but coldness, perfidy, loathing, such as he had
avowed, these could never be redeemed in any way, nor considered other
than they were, insuperable objections to our honorable union.
My heart recoiled from him so utterly, that I could conceive of no fate
more bitter than to be compelled again to receive his profession of
affection, his lover-like caresses; yet, in recoiling, it had been
bruised against its prison-bars, bruised and crushed like a bird that
seeks refuge in the farthest limits of its cage from an approaching foe,
and suffers almost as severely as if given to its fangs.
I determined, after mature consideration, to see him once again,
privately, and beyond the range of all foreign observation and hearing.
In order to do this, I might have to wait, and in the mean time how
should I deport myself, how conceal my change of feeling from his
observant eyes?
I was relieved by an unlooked-for contingency.
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