“You love her, eh?” he asked, looking at me quickly as he interrupted me. “Ah, yes,” he sighed, as a dark shadow overspread his thin, pale face, “I guessed as much—a fatal love. You are young and enthusiastic, and her pretty face, her sweet voice and her soft eyes have fascinated you. How I wish, Mr. Biddulph, that I could reveal to you the ghastly, horrible truth. Though I am your friend—and hers, yet I must, alas! remain silent! The inviolable seal of The Confessional is upon my lips!”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER
Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector, had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honest man.
Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannot tell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than the mere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state of being. When it is born the man is new-made.
Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, ever mystified, ever apprehensive.
Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morning I was disappointed.
It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf lay between us.