“He is quiet, and bears it well,” thought Lord Wainbridge; but then we should always bear the result of our own wrong-doing with philosophy. No one—Lord Wainbridge least of all—would have pitied him had he not endured it with patience. Inwardly Hugh Wainbridge was raging—raging with a wild longing to possess Launa—to have held her in his arms alone, while she was his—to have kissed the life and breath out of her. It was intolerable to think that it was over, that she was not his, and never would be. All through his own stupidity, which he cursed, he felt a mad wild beast, just an animal longing to kill anyone in his way, and to possess the one object of his passion. How he wished he had not told his uncle. Lord Wainbridge was so disappointed.
Mr. Wainbridge sat and meditated on the unsatisfactoriness, the dreariness of all things. His one desire was withheld from him, the desire which now threatened to become madness. He was hardly aware of his uncle’s departure—he seemed to see Launa with a smile of triumph, of victory, on her face, and he could not get to her; she eluded him. How he loved her!—loved her, would, must have her.
Paul wrote to Launa; then he waited and did not go down to see her, much as he longed to do so.
One afternoon he met Sylvia alone. She greeted him with joy. She looked different.
“You look wicked,” he said; and she laughed.
“When are you going to Launa? Go soon. One woman may as well think she is going to be happy in this world. As for me, I have learned that there is no happiness anywhere. I have vanquished my illusions.”
“How is Launa?”
“Alone down there in this dreary weather,” she replied. “She sent us all away—got rid of us very cleverly, even of Mrs. Herbert, and is there by herself.”
“Where are you going?” asked Paul.
“Home—I am wretched. I am so lonely and so weary of—virtue. I think it is very dull. My thoughts annoy me, and they continue so incessantly.”