“Odd,” he was muttering, between his compressed, mustached lips, “that this girl, above all others, is coming here.
“I suppose she is like the rest of her sex, false and fickle as she is fair. It is well that I gave the name of Moore to these quiet farm people, when consciousness after the railway accident returned to me, in order that the affair might not get into the New York newspapers.
“Unknown to her, I will study this girl, whom I was going down to Greenville to see; ay, study her at my leisure, and find her—like all the rest.” And he heaved a sigh which told plainly that he was bored with life, its failures and regrets.
“I suppose it is fate that I am to meet this girl whom my uncle was so desirous that I should wed that he cuts me off in case I refuse to comply with his insane wishes; otherwise, I would have fallen a victim to Ray Challoner’s bullet, which came near enough to plowing my heart, or to death in this railroad wreck, from which I was saved, by almost a miracle. It would seem that my time has not yet come. It is strange, when life has no gladness left in it for a man, that he should still be compelled to live on. When I lost all hope of calling Queenie Trevalyn my bride, I lost all that was dear in this world to me. I have hated all womankind because of her falsity ever since. Even the farmer’s daughter, Miss Lucy, bores me terribly with her many kindnesses.”
CHAPTER XX.
“DO WE EVER LOVE THE WRONG ONE?”
“If love should come again, I ask my heart,
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thy ancient smart,
If love should come again?
“Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel blade