Although 'tis fair
I do not care,
For joy begins and ends with sight.
"A woman pure as virgin snows,
Within whose veins the life-blood flows,
Whose smile reveals
The love she feels,
Ah, such a one is Love's true rose."
The next morning Eustace made up his mind to go to Errington Hall in the afternoon, and meanwhile amused himself in leisurely strolling along the beach watching the waves rolling landward.
Behind him the sand hills rose in low mounds with their scanty vegetation, shutting out the marshes beyond, then came the narrow strip of sandy beach on which his footsteps left deeply imprinted marks, and before him, sombre under the leaden coloured sky, stretched the heaving ocean, with thin lines of white-crested waves breaking to cold foam at his feet. The sky, filled with rain-charged clouds, lowered heavily on the chill earth, and midway flew a wide-winged sea-gull, uttering discordant cries.
It was a dreary scene, and Eustace, with his hands clasped behind him, stared at the dismal prospect, which was quite in keeping with his own disturbed feelings. He was meditating a dishonourable action, and he knew it, so in spite of his determination to carry it through to the bitter end, he felt oppressed by a vague feeling of dread that all his villainy would be of no avail. In the course of his selfish life he had done many foolish things, at which the world had looked askance, but hitherto his pride had preserved him from dishonour, but now he stood on the edge of an abyss into which he was about to plunge of his own free will, and, in spite of his egotistical philosophy, he trembled at the prospect before him.
Supposing he did induce Lady Errington to return his passion and leave England with him, what benefit would it bring to him or to her? To her a ruined home, the memory of a deserted child, the prospect of exile from all social circles, and an endless regret for her fall; to him, delighted companionship for a time, and then a sense of weary disgust, of futile sorrow for a past that could not be undone, and constant discord between himself and the partner of his shame.
Was it worth the risk he was running, for a chimera, a fanciful creation of his own brain, a desire for a vision that might never be realised? And all this time with characteristic selfishness, not a thought for the deserted husband, for the motherless child.