But she knew
this,--that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote
herself to some one. All the elegancies and outward charms of life
were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end.
As an end themselves they were nothing. She had devoted herself to
this old man who was now dead, and there had been moments in which
she had thought that that sufficed. But it had not sufficed, and
instead of being borne down by grief at the loss of her friend, she
found herself almost rejoicing at relief from a vexatious burden.
Had she been a hypocrite then? Was it her nature to be false? After
that she reflected whether it might not be best for her to become
a devotee,--it did not matter much in what branch of the Christian
religion, so that she could assume some form of faith. The sour
strictness of the confident Calvinist or the asceticism of St.
Francis might suit her equally,--if she could only believe in Calvin
or in St. Francis. She had tried to believe in the Duke of Omnium,
but there she had failed.
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