American fiction -- 19th century; Artists -- Fiction
"I do not think my feelings have changed towards her," he replied;
"she is admirable, perfect, and I honor her from the depths of my
heart. Don't you see? I mistook my deep respect, sympathy, and
admiration for something more, and I smiled complacently in my
superior way and flattered myself that it was in this eminently
well-bred and rational manner that Harold Van Berg would pay his
addresses to a lady, and that Stanton's absorbing passion was only
the result of ungoverned, unbalanced nature--accursed prig that I
was! While in this very complacent and superior condition of mind
I committed myself to a course that I cannot carry out, and yet
my failure to do so slays my honor and self-respect. Now, I have
been as explicit with you as you were with me, and with what you
have seen of yourself, you know the whole miserable truth. By a
strange fate we who only met a few months since have come to share
a common, very sad knowledge. The memory of your own past, and
I suppose, your Christian faith also, have made you very merciful
and generous, but I shall tax these qualities no further."
"What will you do, Mr. Van Berg?" Ida asked in sudden dread.
"I shall never look Miss Burton in the face again, and after I have
written to her simply and briefly what I have told you, her regret
will be small indeed. Good-by, Miss Mayhew. If I stay any longer
I may speak words to you that would be insults, coming from me."
"Stay," she said, earnestly, "I have something very important to
say to you."
He hesitated and looked at her in strong surprise.
"Give me a few minutes to think," she pleaded, and he saw, from the
quick rise and fall of her bosom and the nervous clasp of her hands,
that she was deeply agitated. She turned from him and looked
wistfully at the young tree on which she had inscribed her name the
day she had promised Mr. Eltinge to receive all heavenly influences
and guidance. She soon lifted her eyes above the tree and her lips
moved in earnest prayer as ever came from a human heart. She was
facing the sorest temptation of her life, for she had only to be
silent now, she believed, and the success of her efforts to win
him from Jennie Burton would be complete. If left to himself in
this wild, distracted mood he would indeed break every tie that
bound him to her rival; but after time had blunted his poignant
self-condemnation he would inevitably come back to her. The
conscience whispered: "Who forgave you here? What did you promise
here? What does that tree mean with its branches reaching out
towards heaven? What would you think of Jennie Burton were she
trying to win him from you?"
"O Friend of the weak! be though my strength in this moment of
desperate need," she sighed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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