"Until you know him yourself you will always misjudge him," she said.
"I want you to take him my letter, and make his acquaintance."
I hesitated.
"It is the least you can do," she pleaded. "I shall be easier in my
mind if you will. It will be better for him to see you, and hear all
the things I cannot tell him in my letter; and--and--if I must not see
him myself it will be a comfort to see somebody who has. Do go. I shall
be pained if you refuse."
This decided me, and I went at once.
It was a long journey, the same that Ideala herself had taken under
such very different circumstances so short a time before. I thought of
her going in doubt and uncertainty, her own feelings colouring the
aspect of all she saw on the way; and returning in the first warm glow
of her great and unexpected joy--her new-found happiness which was
destined, alas! to be so short-lived. Miserable fate which robbed her
of all that would have made her life worth having--a husband on whom
she could rely; her child; and now the man upon whom she had been
prepared to lavish the long pent-up passion, the concentrated devotion
of her great and noble nature! Poor starved heart, crushed back upon
itself, suffering silently, suffering always, but never hardening--on
the contrary, growing tenderer for others the more it had to endure
itself! Would it always be so? Was there no peace on earth for Ideala?
No one who could be all her own? I felt responsible for this last hard
blow; had I done well? The rush and rattle of the train shaped itself
into a sort of sub-chorus to my thoughts as we sped through the
pleasant fields: _Was it right? Was it right? Was it right?_ And I
saw Ideala, with soft, sad eyes, pleading--mutely pleading--pleading
always for some pleasure in life, some natural, womanly joy, while
youth and the power to love lasted.
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