“It was not till after we had been at the parsonage several days that the speeches which had so suddenly lifted our guest into notice came under my observation. I was astonished at their depth and soundness. There was depth and brilliancy, flashes of rich, strong poetry mingled with the argument—a vivid, quick eloquence in the style that stirred my heart like martial music. By degrees the great wealth of Murray’s intellect, the manly strength and tenderness of his nature, revealed themselves. His character was a grand one; I could look up to that man with my whole being, and grow prouder from the homage.
“A love of intellectual greatness, a worship of mind, had ever been a leading trait in my character. In that man I found more than mind. He was strong in principle, rich in feeling—deep, earnest feeling—which a great soul might battle against if duty commanded, and restrain, but never wholly conquer.
“We had mistaken each other, and there lay the danger. I had believed him cold and ambitious. He had looked upon Lady Granby as a frivolous, selfish woman, who would be forever quaffing the foam of life, but never reach the pure wine; one with whom it was hardly worth while to become acquainted.
“A few days in the old parsonage house sufficed to enlighten us both. There I was natural, gentle, loving—glad to get among innocent things again. In those little rooms I forgot everything but the pleasure of being at home. Weeks passed before I knew why that home had been turned into a paradise to which all previous memories were as nothing.
“I think he recognized the evil that was creeping over us first, for he began to avoid me, and for a time, though in the same house, we scarcely spoke together. But he loved me, spite of his struggles, his sensitive honor, his iron resolves; he loved me, his friend’s wife, but he was strong and honorable. The mighty spirit which had taken possession of his heart unawares could not all at once be driven forth, but it had no power to overcome his integrity. He was too brave and loyal for domestic treason.
“This nobility of character was enough to chain my soul to his forever. I did not attempt to deceive myself; well I knew that the sweet but terrible power growing up in my life was a sin to be atoned for with years of suffering, for souls like ours must avenge themselves for the wrong feelings more certainly than ordinary natures find retribution for evil deeds.
“When the first knowledge came upon me that I loved my husband’s friend it overwhelmed me with consternation. The danger of a thing like this had never entered my thoughts—my heart had been asleep—its awaking frightened me. Mine was not a mad passion that defies human laws and moral ties, or that deceives itself with sophistry. Never for a moment did I attempt to justify or excuse it. I knew that such love would have changed my whole being to gentleness, holiness, humility, anything bright and good, had freedom made it innocent; but I never once thought of breaking the ties that bound me. If I was a slave, my own will had riveted the chains upon my wrist; I was not one to tear them off because the iron began to gall me.
“No, no; the love that I bore him was deep and fervent, but not weak. It might kill, but never degrade me. I believed it then; I am certain of it now. I have trampled on my heart. It has been crushed, broken, thrust aside—but the love of that man lives there yet. I struggled against it—tortured my heart into madness—fled with this clinging love into the depths of the wilderness—to the wilderness, but it lives here yet—it lives here yet.”
Catharine Montour pressed one hand upon her heart as she spoke; her face was pallid with an expression of unutterable pain. Her eyes seemed to plead with the missionary for pity.
He answered that appeal with looks of sorrowful compassion.