“You have been my delight and misery ever since I knew you.  I saw you first, so impetuous, yet self-contained!  Incapable of insincerity, devoid of affection and courageously naturally beautiful.  Then, to my amazement, I saw that, unlike most women, you understood your instincts; that you dared to define them, and were impious enough to follow them.  You debased my ideal, you confused me, also, for I could never affirm that you were wrong; forcing me to consult abstractions, they gave a verdict in your favor, which almost unsexed you in my estimation.  I must own that the man who is willing to marry you has more courage than I have.  Is it strange that when I found your counterpart, Veronica, that I yielded?  Her delicate, pure, ignorant soul suggests to me eternal repose.”

“It is not necessary that you should fatigue your mind with abstractions concerning her.  It will be the literal you will hunger for, dear Ben.”

“Damn it! the world has got a twist in it, and we all go round with it, devilishly awry.”

I said no more.  He had defined my limits, he would, as far as possible, control me without pity or compassion, thinking, probably, that I needed none; the powers he had always given me credit for must be sufficing.  I could not comprehend him.  How was it that he and Verry gave me such horrible pain?  Was it exceptional?  Could I claim nothing from women?  Had they thought me an anomaly?—­while I thought it was Veronica who was called peculiar and original?  The end of it all must be for me to assimilate with their happiness!

“Well?” he said.

“Thank you.”

Then Veronica came, swinging her bonnet.  “The Sagamore has arrived, and I am going to stand on the wharf to count the sailors, and learn if they have all come home.  Will you go, Ben?”

He complied, and I was left alone.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

When Ben left Surrey, I sent no message or letter by him, and he asked for none.  But at once I wrote to Desmond, and did not finish my letter till after midnight.  Intoxicated with the liberty my pen offered me, I roamed over a wide field of paper.  The next morning I burnt it.  But there was something to be said to him before his departure, and again I wrote.  I might have condensed still more.  In this way—­

  VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.

  CHARLES MORGESON.

When the answer came I reflected before I read it, that it might be the last link of the chain between us.  Not a bright one at the best, nor garlanded with flowers, nor was it metal, silver, or gold.  There was rust on it, it was corroded, for it was forged out of his and my substance.

I read it:  “I am yours, as I have been, since the night I asked you ‘How came those scars?’ Did you guess that I read your story?  I go from you with one idea; I love you, and I must go.  Brave woman! you have shamed me to death almost.”