He had seen more, for the human face expressive
of absolute, even though brief, mastery over evil is a nobler object
than can be the serene visage of a sinless and untempted angel.
At last he understood Ida Mayhew. If he had deeply honored her when
he supposed that as a sincere, honest friend only she had spoken
her strong, true words, which might save him from wrecking his life
from impulses of shame and wounded pride, how instantaneously was
this honor changed into reverence and wonder as he recognized her
self-sacrifice at the dictates of conscience. All was now perfectly
clear. The truth of her love had flashed out from the dark cloud
of her passionate grief, and in its white radiance all the baffling
mystery of her past action was dissipated instantly. Now he knew
why the brilliant music at the concert garden could not brighten
her face, and the end of the symphony saw her in tears. Now he
understood why she could not be Jennie Burton's friend, even though
capable of becoming a martyr for her sake from a sense of duty. The
despairing farewell letter she had once written to him now became
fraught with a deeper meaning, and he saw that in throwing away
the imperfect rose-bud, and in looking at her as a creature akin
to Sibley, he had inflicted mortal wounds on a heart that gave him
only love in return.
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