Would it not be better to die, to close one's eyes upon it all, to
sink into silence, than thus to register the awful conflict of will
and passion with the tranquil life that could not surrender its
dreams of peace? What did he need and desire? He could not tell; he
felt almost a hatred of the slender, quiet girl, with her sweet
look, her delicate hands, her noiseless movements. She had made no
claim, she did not come in radiant triumph, with impressive
gestures and strong commanding influences into his life; she had
not even cried out passionately, demanded love, displayed an urgent
need; there had been nothing either tragic or imperious, nothing
that called for instant solution; she was just a girl, sweet,
wayward, anxious-minded, living a trivial, simple, sheltered life.
What had given her this awful power over him, which seemed to have
rent and shattered all his tranquil contentment, and yet had
offered no splendid opportunity, claimed no all-absorbing devotion,
no magnificent sacrifice? It was a sort of monstrous spell, a
magical enchantment, which had thus made havoc of all his plans and
gentle schemes. Life, he felt, could never be the same for him
again; he was in the grip of a power that made light of human
arrangements. The old books were full of it; they had spoken of
some hectic mystery, that seized upon warriors and sages alike,
wasted their strength, broke their energies, led them into crime
and sorrow.
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