Knowles--that old sceptic--believed in it, and called it
Love. Even Goethe himself, what was it he said? "Der
Allumfasser, der Allerhalter, fasst und erhalt er nicht, dich,
mich, sich selbst?"
There was a curious power in the words, as he lingered over them,
like half-comprehended music,--as simple and tender as if they
had come from the depths of a woman's heart: it touched him
deeper than his power of control. Pah! it was a dream of
Faust's; he, too, had his Margaret; he fell, through that love.
He went on slowly to the mill. If the name or the words woke a
subtile remorse or longing, he buried them under restful
composure. Whether they should ever rise like angry ghosts of
what might have been, to taunt the man, only the future could
tell.
Going through the gas-lit streets, Holmes met some cordial
greeting at every turn. What a just, clever fellow he was!
people said: one of those men improved by success: just to the
defrauding of himself: saw the true worth of everybody, the very
lowest: hadn't one spark of self-esteem: despised all humbug and
show, one could see, though he never said it: when he was a boy,
he was moody, with passionate likes and dislikes; but success had
improved him, vastly. So Holmes was popular, though the beggars
shunned him, and the lazy Italian organ-grinders never held their
tambourines up to him.
The mill street was dark; the building threw its great shadow
over the square. It was empty, he supposed; only one hand
generally remained to keep in the furnace-fires.
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