For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief. Only
of late had she begun to see her new position, as it was--that of a
woman married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been
gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who,
however disillusioned, is--even if in secret from herself--more and more
surely seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and
beauty. To-night--gazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in
the mirror--she saw that position more clearly, in all its aridity, than
she had ever seen it. What was the use of being pretty? No longer use to
anyone! Not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery! With a shiver, but not of
cold, she drew her wrapper close. This time last year she had at least
been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict. And yet--better
far be like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing
over her sleeping baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers
crooked like claws.
After that early-morning escape, Fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks,
in town, at Mildenham, followed them even to Scotland, where Winton had
carried her off. But she had not weakened in her resolution a second
time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad. Since
then--nothing had come from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters,
written evidently during drinking-bouts.
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