As Sidney listened
to the old man telling of his wondrous vision, he became possessed
with ardour such as he had known but once or twice in his life.
Idealism such as Michael Snowdon had developed in these latter years
is a form of genius; given the susceptible hearer, it dazzles,
inspires, raises to heroic contempt of the facts of life. Had this
story been related to him of some unknown person, Sidney would have
admired, but as one admires the nobly impracticable; subject to the
electric influence of a man who was great enough to conceive and
direct his life by such a project, who could repose so supreme a
faith in those he loved, all the primitive nobleness of his
character asserted itself, and he could accept with a throbbing
heart the superb challenge addressed to him.
'If Jane can think me worthy to be her husband,' he replied, 'your
friend shall see that he has feared without cause.'
'I knew it, Sidney; I knew it!' exclaimed the old man. 'How much
younger I feel now that I have shared this burden with you!'
'And shall you now tell Jane?' the other inquired.
'Not yet; not just yet. She is very young; we must wait a little.
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