He meant to keep his words; he intended to fling far from him all remembrance of this woman whom to think of now would be sin; he meant to cling with his whole heart to this one who had loved and honored him while others had laughed at his distress.
He would go over to Mount Severn and ask her to be his wife. He would, if God were willing, marry her, and from the ashes of the old life construct a fair edifice; then when all barriers of love and honor parted him from Lady Hermione, he should most certainly forget her.
He was not altogether blinded; he knew it was not so much love for Clarice and the desire of taking up the broken threads of life that actuated him as it was the wish to show the whole world, including Lady Hermione, that he was not the victim of an unhappy love.
Is there any sadder story than the tale of a strong man’s love when that love is wasted and vain? Had Sir Ronald been a man of more commonplace character he would have done as commonplace men do—recovered from the effects of his disappointment and looked around him for a second object to love. Being what he was, his life had now but one object—to hide from the world the pain that was never to cease preying upon him.
One warm, beautiful September evening he went over to Mount Severn. Although he did not love her, the scene will never leave his memory until death takes all earthly pictures from him.
Warm and bright, with the lingering gold of summer in the sky, and the breath of flowers in the air, the birds were singing in the shade of the trees, the south wind whispered sweet and low. He found Mrs. Severn alone and asked her where he could find her daughter.
“Clarice is out in the grounds,” replied the lady. “I have been scolding her, Sir Ronald, and she does not like it.”
“I cannot imagine the word ‘scolding’ as applicable from you to her,” he replied.
“Well, I will modify it, and say that I have been finding fault with her. She used to fill my home with sunshine and music, Sir Ronald; now she does nothing but dream. I never saw so great a change in a bright, high-spirited girl. I know as well as though I could see her she is dreaming now, and I should like to know what fills her thoughts.”
“Shall I try to find out?” he said, laughingly. “Perhaps she is writing a book or a poem, in which case you must allow her time to dream.”