“Captain Osborn,” he said, half to himself, “poor old Captain; I am sorry for him, indeed I am, and yet in one way he is to be congratulated, for sorrow is a torch that enlarges the scope of the understanding and softens the heart of the sufferer toward humanity. Yes, I feel sorry for the captain,” he went on. “My regret, however, is not so much for the termination of the affair as it is that such an unequal marriage should have been made in the first place.”
“Why do you call it unequal, Major? Of course, you understand that I readily admit there was a vast difference between Captain Osborn and Mrs. Osborn, but I interpret their differences as a lack of congeniality, rather than inequality.”
“An equal marriage,” said the old major, “is one where the infatuation or illusion goes on until the end; an unequal marriage is where one or the other has foiled to find that for which they sought. I know it is contrary to the canons of good society, but, nevertheless, my sympathies linger with the transgressor in these unequal marriages, rather than with the dolt of a man or woman who is satisfied with a monotonous existence instead of living in the exhilarating atmosphere of love’s fullest intoxication. Lucy Osborn was never willing to trudge along, elbow to elbow with the captain, sympathetically sharing the poverty as well as the successes of life; she was brave in the latter and a coward in the former condition. Poor woman, probably this would never have occurred had their marriage been an equal one.”
“I am glad, Major,” said Hugh, “that you regard the memory of Mrs. Osborn with so much charity. Of course we cannot deny that she was, perhaps, indiscreet, but I cannot believe that she was wicked.”
“The unforgivable sin,” said the major, “with one’s friends, is not to sin in silence—if one sins at all. It is not the part of honest charity to have even an opinion in regard to the truthfulness or untruthfulness of the rumors which connected her name with that of Lord Avondale. Lucy Osborn,” continued Major Hampton, “belonged to a not uncommon class of women. In their youth they long with passionate impatience for an impetuous, strong, overpowering, consuming love, but when the semblance finally comes along,—like, for instance, the refined and exalted affection of a man like Captain Osborn,—they seize upon it like a famished tigress and then immediately cease suing the adorer for continued adoration, but sit idly down and satiate themselves with revels in supremest selfishness, prodigal indifference, and reckless abandonment of opportunities. Lucy Osborn even threw open the window of prudence, and something flew away, leaving emptiness and poverty of heart, where plenty should have reigned; indeed, her life’s boudoir was stripped of its rich furnishings, leaving instead a tangled maze of regret to feed upon her famished and impoverished heart, driving her, perhaps, to play at lottery with her reputation, and, like any other gambler standing before the green cloth, the chances were ninety-nine to one that she would lose.”
Just here they were interrupted by Judge Lynn, who came rushing in at the door, his tall hat well back on his small head and his coat sleeves pushed up, as if he were transacting all the business, worth mentioning, in the Great Southwest.
“Hello, Major; why, hello, Stanton; did n’t know you had any one with you, Major.”
The major nodded and motioned him to be seated, and, turning to Hugh, he went on talking. “It is a hard question, therefore, to determine, Stanton, and seemingly an unfair one to decide, whether or not Captain Osborn is not better off under the present conditions than he would have been had Mrs. Osborn lived. The infatuation of love is a peculiar sentiment; sages and poets have endeavored to describe it, from the beginning of the world to the present time, and they usually have written most volubly of it at that period of their lives when they knew the least about it. My long years of observation teach me that love is actuated either by sentiment, interest, or reason. The first has to do with a handsome face and a beautiful form; the second with a homely face, which certainly suggests sympathy; and the third with a woman virtuous in mind and body. Fortunate is the man who discovers a woman who excites in him the first and last of these motives. A womanly woman binds our hearts with ungalling chains on earth, and keeps our souls in tune and in communication with heaven.”
“Excuse me, Major,” said Judge Lynn, “for observin’ that, in my jedgment, thar’s a heap o’ ig’nance ‘round these diggin’s ‘bout the sentiment of love.”
The old major smiled and looked compassionately at the judge. “What do you know, Judge, about love matters?” he asked, giving Hugh a knowing look.