At that moment, as I watched John Gray’s face, with Alice’s nestled close, and his arms clasped tight around her, while they read Ellen’s letter, a great load rolled off my heart.  I went through many dark days afterward, but I never could quite despair when I remembered the fatherhood and the husbandhood which were in his eyes and his voice that night

The story of the next twelve months could be told in few words, so far as its external incidents are concerned.  It could not be told in a thousand volumes, if I attempted to reproduce the subtle undercurrents of John Gray’s life and mine.  Each of us was living a double life; he more or less unconsciously; I with such sharpened senses, such overwrought emotions, that I only wonder that my health did not give way.  I endured vicariously all the suspense and torment of the deepest jealousy, with a sense of more than vicarious responsibility added, which was almost more than human nature could bear.  Ellen little knew how heavy would be the burden she laid upon me.  Her most express and explicit direction was that the familiar intimacy between our family and Mrs. Long’s was to be preserved unaltered.  This it would have been impossible for me to do if Mrs. Long had not herself recognized the necessity of it, for her own full enjoyment of John’s society.  But it was a hard thing; my aunt, the ostensible head of our house, was a quiet woman who had nothing whatever to do with society, and who felt in the outset a great shrinking from the brilliant Mrs. Long.  I had never been on intimate terms with her, so that John and Alice were really the only members of the household who could keep up precisely the old relation.  And so it gradually came about that to most of our meetings under each other’s roofs, strangers were asked to fill up the vacant places, and in spite of all Emma Long’s efforts and mine, there was a change in the atmosphere of our intercourse.  But there was intimacy enough to produce the effect for which Ellen was most anxious, i.e., to extend the shelter of our recognition to the friendship between John and Emma, and to remove from them both all temptation to anything clandestine or secret.  They still saw each other almost daily; they still shared most of each other’s interests and pleasures; they still showed most undisguised delight in each other’s presence.  Again and again I went with them to the opera, to the theatre, and sat through the long hours, watching, with a pain which seemed to me hardly less than Ellen’s would have been, their constant sympathy with each other in every point of enjoyment, their constant forgetfulness of every one else.