第90章 "Hope dies Hard."(2)

His first impression,that Miss Burton had passed through some experience,some ordeal of suffering that separated her from ordinary humanity,often reasserted itself more strongly than ever.

At times her flame-like spirit would flash up with a glow and brilliancy that lighted and warmed his very soul,but the feeling began to grow upon him that this genial fire consumed the costliest of all offerings--self.Did not her own broken heart and shattered hopes supply the fuel?Instead of brooding apart over some misfortune that would have crushed most natures,was she not seeking to make her life an altar on which she laid as a gift to others the best treasures of her woman's soul?

The more closely he studied her character,and the controlling impulses of her life,the more sincere became his admiration,and the deeper his reverence.He felt with truth that she WAS of different and finer clay from himself.

So strong was this impression,that the thought occurred to him that in this and kindred reasons might be found the explanation of the peculiar regard he felt for her.He had virtually offered himself,and would again if he could find the opportunity.If he were sure the he would win her,he would exult as one might who had secured the revenue of a kingdom,the purest and largest gem in the world,or some other possession that was unique and priceless.The whole of his strong intellectual nature would be jubilant over the great success of his life.He was also conscious that some of the deepest feelings of his soul were interested.She was becoming like a religion to him,and he imagined that his regard for her was somewhat akin to that of a devout Catholic for a patron saint.

And yet he was compelled to admit to himself that he did not lover her as he supposed he would love the woman he hoped to make his wife.Why was his heart so tranquil and his pulse so steady?

Certainly not because of assured success.Why did his regard differ so radically from Stanton's consuming passion?Should Stanton win her he felt that he could still seek her society and enjoy her friendship.The prospect of never winning her himself did not rob life of its zest and color.On the contrary,he believed that she would ever be an inspiration,an exquisite ideal realized in actual life.As such he could not lose her any more than those women whom poetry,fiction,and history had placed as stars in his firmament,and this belief so contented him as to awaken surprise.

As he returned from a long and solitary stroll on Monday evening he soliloquized complacently,"I am making too great a mystery of it all.She is not an ordinary woman.Why should I feel towards her the ordinary and conventional love which any woman might evoke?

There is more of spirit than of flesh and blood in her exquisite organization.Sorrow has refined away every gross and selfish element,and left a saint towards whom devotion is far more seemly and natural than passion.She awakens in me a regard corresponding to her own nature,and I thank heaven that I am at least finely enough organized to understand her and so can seek to win her in accordance with the subtle laws of her being.She would shrink inevitably from a downright,headlong passion like that of Stanton's,no matter how honest it might be or how good the man expressing it.No hand,however strong,will ever grasp this 'rara avis,'

this good angel,rather.Her wings must be pinioned by gossamer threads of patient kindness,delicate sympathy,nice appreciation,and all woven and wound so unobtrusively that the shy spirit may not be startled.What a fool I was to blurt out my feelings last evening!What rare good fortune is mine in the fact that she gives me the vantage-ground of friendship from which to urge a suit wherein must be combined sincerity with consummate skill.I fear I must efface some other image before I can implant my own.How fortunate I am that my cool and well-poised nature will enable me to work under the guidance of judgment rather than impulse."Feeling that he had much to gain and was in danger of irretrievable loss,he lightly mounted the steps of the hotel,bent on finding at once the object of his thoughts.

He saw her leaving a group in the parlor,of which Stanton was one,and he hastened to intercept her in the hall-way.Just as he was about to speak to her,Mr.Burleigh came bustling up and said:

"Miss Burton,a stranger--not to fame or fortune,nor to you probably,but a stranger to me--is inquiring for you--a stranger from the South.He would not give his name,and--good heaven,Miss Burton!are you ill?"Van Berg led her into a private parlor near.She certainly had grown very white and faint.But after a moment there came a flash of hope and eager expectation into her face that no words could have expressed.

"His name--his name?"she gasped.

Mr.Burleigh looked at her a second,and then said:"Stay quietly here,I'll bring him to you;and then,Mr.Van Berg,perhaps you and I might form an enormous crowd.""Had I not better leave you at once?"the artist asked when they were alone.

"Wait a moment.I--I--am very weak.It cannot be--but hope dies hard."Trembling like a leaf,and with eyes aflame with intense,eager hope,she watched the door.

A moment later Mr.Burleigh ushered in a middle-aged gentleman,who commenced saying:

"Pardon me,Miss Burton,for not sending my name,but you would not have known it"--then the young lady's appearance checked him.

The effect of his coming was indeed striking.It was as if a gust of wind had suddenly extinguished a lamp.The luminous eyes closed for a moment,and the face became so pallid and ashen in its hue as to suggest death.It was evident to Van Berg that her disappointment was more bitter than death.