He thought that, if she would only
allow it, he could speak of her love as a calamity which had
befallen them, as from the hand of fate, and not as a fault. If he
could make a partnership in misery with her, so that each might
believe that each was acting for the best, then he could endure
all that might come. But, as he was well aware, she regarded him
as being simply cruel to her. She did not understand that he was
performing an imperative duty. She had set her heart upon a
certain object, and having taught herself that in that way
happiness might be reached, had no conception that there should be
something in the world, some idea of personal dignity, more
valuable to her than the fruition of her own desires! And yet
every word he spoke to her was affectionate. He knew that she was
bruised, and if it might be possible he would pour oil into her
wounds,--even though she would not recognise the hand which
relieved her.
They slept one night in town--where they encountered Silverbridge
soon after his retreat from the Beargarden. 'I cannot quite make
up my mind, sir, about that fellow Tifto,' he said to his father.
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