Years and years had passed since he had seen
her face, and yet it was always present to him. Beyond the occasional
mention of her name in some society paper--several of which, by the
way, he took in for years and conscientiously searched on the chance
of finding it--till this evening he had never even seen it or heard
it spoken; and yet with all the tenacity of his strong, deep nature he
clung to her dear memory. That she had left him to marry another man
weighed as nothing in the balance of his love. Once she had loved
him, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He had
no ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that had
fallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simply
did his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fear
of blame or hope of praise--shunning men, and never, if he could avoid
it, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for the
rest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion.
And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant--and his
heart beat fast at the thought--that she was a free woman. Madeline was
a free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousands
of miles of ocean rolled between them now.
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