Why does all thought of confession fade from Randolph's mind?
O, the atmosphere of the presence of a pure, and beautiful woman, whose eyes gleam upon you with passionate love, carries with it an enchantment, which makes you forget the whole universe,—everything,—save that she is before you, that she loves you, that your soul is chained to her eyes.
Randolph silently stretched forth his arms. She came to him, and laid her arms about his neck, her bosom upon his breast.
"My wife!" he whispered.
And she raised her face, until their lips and their eyes, met at once, whispering—"My husband."
Certainly, this was a happy day for Randolph Royalton.
Talk of opium, hashish, dream-elixir! Talk of their enchantment, and of the Mahomet's paradise which they create! What enchantment can rival the pressure of a pure woman's lips, which breathe softly, "husband!" as she lays them against your own?
But at least a dozen gentlemen who have divorce cases on hand, will curse me bitterly for writing the last sentence. And all the old bachelors who, having never known the kiss of a pure wife, or any wife at all, and having grown musty in their sins, will turn away with an "umph!" and an oath. And all the young libertines, who, deriving their opinion of women, merely from the unfaithful wives, and abandoned creatures with whom they have herded, and having expended even before the day of young manhood, every healthy throb, in shameless excess, they, too, will expand their faded eyes, and curl their colorless lips, at the very mention of "a pure woman," much less, a "pure woman's kiss." The "fast," the very "fast" boys!
But there are some who will not utterly dislike the allusion to a pure woman, or a pure woman's kiss.