“Nevertheless, I am sure she married Herbert, uncle.”
“You are mistaken, Annie. Herbert continued his devotion for years; he learned to love her child as if it were his own, and gave proofs of disinterestedness and tenderness such as no woman could misinterpret; but he never offered her his hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knew it would be rejected, and he preferred being a life-long friend, to occupying the position of an unsuccessful suitor.”
“Then I suppose she never married again.”
“You are wrong again, Annie. At forty years of age, when her beauty was faded, and her character had deteriorated amid the follies of society, she married a man some ten years her junior, who, tempted by the income which Herbert had bestowed upon her, flattered her into the belief that she had inspired him with the most passionate love.”
“And her child?”
“Was adopted by Herbert Darsie, and at his death inherited his estate.”
“Poor, poor Herbert!”
“He suffered the penalty which all must pay who give to earth the high and holy sentiment which is only meant to make us companion with the angels in heaven. Not one in a thousand can love thus, and that one always finds that in the world’s vast desert, he has expended his strength in vain—‘hewn out broken cisterns which can hold no water.’”