She bore up bravely for a while, but
it killed her. She never wearied her lover with her self-reproach, but
crushed back her sorrows into her heart, and met him always with a
gentle smile. That same smile contrasted so sadly, at last, with the
wan, worn features, that it often made him bend his bushy brows to
conceal the rising tears.
If her destiny had been different--if she had died ripe in years, after
a life spent in calm matronly happiness, with all that she loved best
round her, would she have been nursed so tenderly or mourned so bitterly
by the nearest and dearest of them all as she was by her tempter to sin?
I think not. I believe that in all the world there never was a greater
sorrow than that which Mohun endured as he saw his treasure slowly
escaping him; never a desolation more complete and crushing than that
which fell upon him as he stood by her corpse, with dry eyes, folded
arms, and a heavy, frowning brow. It was not only that he felt her place
could never be filled again--many feel that, and find it turn out
so--but a part of his being was gone: all that was soft, and kind, and
tender in his nature died with Caroline Mannering. He never could get
rid of a certain chivalry which was inherent in him, so sometimes he
would do a generous thing; but he did it so harshly as to deprive the
act of the semblance of good-nature.
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