But what had he done to carry them out--those lofty wishes? Surely
nothing. For, obsessed with his own selfish anguish, he had lived on with
no single worthy aim, with no aim at all except to forget and deaden his
suffering.
Forget! Ah God! that could never be. For had she not said there was an
eternal marriage of their souls--in life or in death they could never be
parted?
And he had tried to break this sacred tender bond, when he should have
cherished every memory to comfort his deep pain with its sweetness. What
had he done? Let sorrow sink him to the level of the poor gipsy girl,
instead of trying to do some fine thing as a tribute to his lady's noble
teaching.
He strode on in the dusk towards his home, his thoughts lashing him with
shame and remorse.
And that night, when he and Pike were alone in his own panelled room, he
broke the seal of those beautiful letters which, with directions for them
to be buried with his body at his death, had lain in a packet hidden away
from sight all these years, freighted with agonised memory.
He read them over carefully, from the first brief note to the last long cry
of love which Dmitry had brought him to Paris. Then he lay back in his
chair, while his strong frame shook with sobs, and his eyes were blinded by
scorching, bitter tears.
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