Her dignity is her idol. What makes her, even
for a moment, the possible theme of ridicule is in her eyes an
unpardonable sin. This sin, I must with penitence confess, I did indeed
commit. Another woman might have forgiven me. I know not how that may
be; I throw myself on the mercy of the court. But, if another could pity
and pardon, to Olive this was impossible. I have never seen her since
that fatal moment when, paler than her orange blossoms, she swept through
the porch of the church, while I, dishevelled, mud-stained,
half-drowned--ah! that memory will torture me if memory at all remains.
And yet, fool, maniac, that I was, I could not resist the wild, mad
impulse to laugh which shook the rustic spectators, and which in my case
was due, I trust, to hysterical but _not_ unmanly emotion. If any woman,
any bride, could forgive such an apparent but most unintentional insult,
Olive Dunne, I knew, was not that woman. My abject letters of
explanation, my appeals for mercy, were returned unopened. Her parents
pitied me, perhaps had reasons for being on my side, but Olive was of
marble. It is not only myself that she cannot pardon, she will never, I
know, forgive herself while my existence reminds her of what she had to
endure. When she receives the intelligence of my demise, no suspicion
will occur to her; she will not say 'He is fitly punished;' but her peace
of mind will gradually return.
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