Until she was near twenty you would have thought her
sexless. Senhouse, her poetical friend and teacher--her only friend, her
only confidant--had dubbed her Artemis; and it may well have been his
adoring service of her pure flame which first turned it inwards, to scorch
her heart. All that she had learned of this scholar gypsy she poured out
as balm over the stricken Ingram, who swallowed it and her together. Then
the truth about him was blared upon her suddenly, and she found that he
was to be pitied. Guileless victim of a hateful woman as she believed him
then, she found that she held a store of balm. She pitied him deeply, she
opened, she poured out her treasure. Enthusiasm for the saving work
captained her thereafter; nothing would turn her from her purpose. Ingram
was to be saved by love: she gave him all.
To do him justice, a young man born to possess and command, he did his
best to repair what was beyond repair. He told her the truth unasked by
her; he confessed that he loved her, and owned that he had no business to
do it. Nearness, circumstance, brooding on that which was true of both of
them and must not be uttered by either, did the rest. Upon that evening in
the drawing-room when they found themselves alone, each trembling under
the god, they simply drifted together, and without effort to resist,
mingled their natures through the lips.
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