"Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us
then, little one,--before you and me? Do you remember the
Christmas before I went away? I had a strong arm and a hungry
brain to go out into the world with, then. Something better,
too, I had. A purer self than was born with me came late in
life, and nestled in my heart. Margret, there was no fresh
loving thought in my brain for God or man that did not grow from
my love of you; there was nothing noble or kindly in my nature
that did not flow into that love, and deepen there. I was your
master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held
your love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is
too late."--He wiped the cold drops from his face.--"Now do you
know whether it is remorse I feel, when I think how I put this
purer self away,--how I went out triumphant in my inhuman, greedy
brain,--how I resolved to know, to be, to trample under foot all
weak love or homely pleasures? I have been punished. Let those
years go. I think, sometimes, I came near to the nature of the
damned who dare not love: I would not. It was then I hurt you,
Margret,--to the death: your true life lay in me, as mine in
you."
He had gone on drearily, as though holding colloquy with himself,
as though great years of meaning surged up and filled the broken
words. It may have been thus with the girl, for her face
deepened as she listened. For the first time for many long days
tears welled up into her eyes, and rolled between her fingers
unheeded.
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