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"More than lover," said the young Swiss, overhearing. "She was
my wife before God, when you took her from me. In my country,
a betrothal is as sacred as a marriage. Then came that man, he
filled her heart with illusions, and took her away in my
absence. When my brother was here in the corvette, he found her
for me. Then I came for her; I saved her sister; then I saw the
name on the card and would not give my own. I became her
servant. She saw me in the yacht, only once; she knew me; she
was afraid. Then she said, 'Perhaps I still love you,--a
little; I do not know; I am in despair; take me from this home
I hate.' We sailed that day in the small boat for
Narragansett,--I know not where. She hardly looked up or
spoke; but for me, I cared for nothing since she was with me.
When the storm came, she was frightened, and said, 'It is a
retribution.' I said, 'You shall never go back.' She never
did. Here she is. You cannot take her from me."
Once on board the light-ship, she had been assigned the
captain's state-room, while Antoine watched at the door. She
seemed to shrink from him whenever he went to speak to her, he
owned, but she answered kindly and gently, begging to be left
alone. When at last the vessel parted her moorings, he
persuaded Emilia to come on deck and be lashed to the mast,
where she sat without complaint.
Who can fathom the thoughts of that bewildered child, as she
sat amid the spray and the howling of the blast, while the
doomed vessel drifted on with her to the shore? Did all the
error and sorrow of her life pass distinctly before her? Or did
the roar of the surf lull her into quiet, like the unconscious
kindness of wild creatures that toss and bewilder their prey
into unconsciousness ere they harm it? None can tell. Death
answers no questions; it only makes them needless.
The morning brought to the scene John Lambert, just arrived by
land from New York.
The passion of John Lambert for his wife was of that kind which
ennobles while it lasts, but which rarely outlasts marriage. A
man of such uncongenial mould will love an enchanting woman
with a mad, absorbing passion, where self-sacrifice is so
mingled with selfishness that the two emotions seem one; he
will hungrily yearn to possess her, to call her by his own
name, to hold her in his arms, to kill any one else who claims
her. But when she is once his wife, and his arms hold a body
without a soul,--no soul at least for him,--then her image is
almost inevitably profaned, and the passion which began too
high for earth ends far too low for heaven. Let now death
change that form to marble, and instantly it resumes its virgin
holiness; though the presence of life did not sanctify, its
departure does. It is only the true lover to whom the breathing
form is as sacred as the breathless.
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