would be capable of looking beyond the unhappy present
to the possibilities of a more brilliant future, or
at least that the certainty of his consent to such
a second union would momentarily please her.
It was hard to say why he had spoken. It had been
an impulse such as the most selfish people sometimes
yield to when their failing strength brings upon them
suddenly the sense of their inability to resist any
longer the course of events. The vanity of man
is so amazing that when he is past arrogating to himself
the attention which is necessary to him as his daily
bread, he is capable of so demeaning his manhood as
to excite interest in his weaknesses rather than that
he should cease to be the object of any interest whatever.
The analysis of the feelings of old and selfish persons
is the most difficult of all studies; for in proportion
as the strength of the dominant passion or passions
is quenched in the bitter still waters of the harbour
of superannuation, the small influences of life grow
in importance. As when, from the breaking surge
of an angry ocean, the water is dashed high among
the re-echoing rocks, leaving little pools of limpid
clearness in the hollows of the storm-beaten cliffs;
and as when the anger of the tossing waves has subsided,
the hot sun shines upon the mimic seas, and the clear
waters that were so transparent grow thick and foul
with the motion of a tiny and insignificant insect-life
undreamed of before in such crystal purity: so
also the clear strong sea of youth is left to dry in
the pools and puddles of old age, and in the motionless
calm of the still places where the ocean of life has
washed it, it is dried up and consumed by myriads
of tiny parasites—lives within lives, passions
within passions—tiny efforts at mimic greatness,—a
restless little world, the very parody and infinitesimal
reproduction of the mighty flood whence it came, wherein
great monsters have their being, and things of unspeakable
beauty grow free in the large depths of an unfathomed
ocean.
To Corona d’Astrardente in the freshness of
her youth the study of her husband’s strange
littleness had grown to be a second nature from the
habit of her devotion to him. But she could not
understand him; she could not explain to herself the
sudden confession of old age, the quiet anticipation
of death, the inexplicable generosity towards herself.
She only knew that he must be at heart a man more
kindly and of better impulse than he had generally
been considered, and she resolved to do her utmost
to repay him, and to soothe the misery of his last
years.
Since he had told her so plainly, it must be true.
It was natural, perhaps—for he was growing
more feeble every day—but it was very sad.
Five years ago, when she had choked down her loathing
for the old man to whom she had sold herself for her
father’s sake, she would not have believed that
she should one day feel the tears rise fast at the
thought of his dying and leaving her free. He