“Bertha, shall you love me when we are first married?  I wouldn’t mind if you really loved me only for a little while.”

Her look of astonishment, as she loosed my hand and started away from me, recalled me to a sense of my strange, my criminal indiscretion.

“Forgive me,” I said, hurriedly, as soon as I could speak again; “I did not know what I was saying.”

“Ah, Tasso’s mad fit has come on, I see,” she answered quietly, for she had recovered herself sooner than I had.  “Let him go home and keep his head cool.  I must go in, for the sun is setting.”

I left her—­full of indignation against myself.  I had let slip words which, if she reflected on them, might rouse in her a suspicion of my abnormal mental condition—­a suspicion which of all things I dreaded.  And besides that, I was ashamed of the apparent baseness I had committed in uttering them to my brother’s betrothed wife.  I wandered home slowly, entering our park through a private gate instead of by the lodges.  As I approached the house, I saw a man dashing off at full speed from the stable-yard across the park.  Had any accident happened at home?  No; perhaps it was only one of my father’s peremptory business errands that required this headlong haste.

Nevertheless I quickened my pace without any distinct motive, and was soon at the house.  I will not dwell on the scene I found there.  My brother was dead—­had been pitched from his horse, and killed on the spot by a concussion of the brain.

I went up to the room where he lay, and where my father was seated beside him with a look of rigid despair.  I had shunned my father more than any one since our return home, for the radical antipathy between our natures made my insight into his inner self a constant affliction to me.  But now, as I went up to him, and stood beside him in sad silence, I felt the presence of a new element that blended us as we had never been blent before.  My father had been one of the most successful men in the money-getting world:  he had had no sentimental sufferings, no illness.  The heaviest trouble that had befallen him was the death of his first wife.  But he married my mother soon after; and I remember he seemed exactly the same, to my keen childish observation, the week after her death as before.  But now, at last, a sorrow had come—­the sorrow of old age, which suffers the more from the crushing of its pride and its hopes, in proportion as the pride and hope are narrow and prosaic.  His son was to have been married soon—­would probably have stood for the borough at the next election.  That son’s existence was the best motive that could be alleged for making new purchases of land every year to round off the estate.  It is a dreary thing onto live on doing the same things year after year, without knowing why we do them.  Perhaps the tragedy of disappointed youth and passion is less piteous than the tragedy of disappointed age and worldliness.