“To join the army.”
“The army!”
“Little Playmate,” said Despard, “even my discovery of my father’s death has not changed me. Even my thirst for vengeance could not take the place of my love. Listen—I flung myself with all the ardor that I could command into the pursuit of my father’s murderers. I forced myself to an unnatural pitch of pitilessness and vindictiveness. I set out to pursue one of the worst of these men with the full determination to kill him. God saved me from blood-guiltiness. I found the man dead in the road. After this all my passion for vengeance died out, and I was brought face to face with the old love and the old despair. But each of us would die rather than do wrong, or go on in a wrong course. The only thing left for us is to separate forever.”
“Yes, forever,” murmured Mrs. Thornton.
“Ah, Little Playmate,” he continued, taking her hand, “you are the one who was not only my sweet companion but the bright ideal of my youth. You always stood transfigured in my eyes. You, Teresa, were in my mind something perfect—a bright, brilliant being unlike any other. Whether you were really what I believed you mattered not so far as the effect upon me was concerned. You were at once a real and an ideal being. I believed in you, and believe in you yet.
“I was not a lover; I was a devotee. My feelings toward you are such as Dante describes his feelings toward his Beatrice. My love is tender and reverential. I exalt you to a plane above my own. What I say may sound extravagant to you, but it is actual fact with me. Why it should be so I can not tell. I can only say—I am so made.
“We part, and I leave you; but I shall be like Dante, I suppose, and as the years pass, instead of weakening my love they will only refine it and purify it. You will be to me a guardian angel, a patron saint—your name shall always mingle with my prayers. Is it impious to name your name in prayer? I turn away from you because I would rather suffer than do wrong. May I not pray for my darling?”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Mrs. Thornton, wearily. “Your power over me is fearful. Lama, I would do any thing for your sake. You talk about your memories; it is not for me to speak about mine. Whether you idealize me or not, after all, you must know what I really am.”
{Illustration: “SHE WAS WEEPING. DESPARD FOLDED HER IN HIS ARMS."}
“Would you be glad never to see me again?”