In the one short sentence her
whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. She
let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the
passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained.
For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other.
To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession.
And then, all at once the words came to her lips which could be
restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had been
no one to whom she could speak. For years she had sought him, as best
she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. And
she had known that her father was seeking him also, everywhere, that
he might drag her to the ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of the
Wanderer's presence in the same country. It had amounted to a madness
with him of the kind not seldom seen. Beatrice might marry whom she
pleased, but not the one man she loved. Day by day and year by year
their two strong wills had been silently opposed, and neither the one
nor the other had ever been unconscious of the struggle, nor had either
yielded a hair's-breadth. But Beatrice had been at her father's mercy,
for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resist
him. Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the man
she sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead that
she could discover an explanation of his failure to find her.
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