He had sought her; he had lifted her above her own life. If one
human being had ever put its happiness in the hands of another,
that had been done. If he had not deliberately taught her to love
him, he had not tried to prevent it. He could not excuse himself;
the thought of gaining her affection had occurred to him, and he
had put it aside. There was no excuse; for when she gave her love,
he had accepted it, and, as far as she knew, had given his own
unreservedly. Ah, that fatal moment of weakness, that night on the
mountam-side! Could he tell her, could he tell Raines, the truth,
and ask to be released? What could Easter with her devotion, and
Raines with his singleness of heart, know of this substitute for love
which civilization had taught him? Or, granting that they could understand, he might return home; but Easter-what was left for her?
It was useless to try to persuade himself that her love would fade
away, perhaps quickly, and leave no scar; that Raines would in
time win her for himself, his first idea of their union be realized,
and, in the end, all happen for the best. That might easily be
possible with a different nature under different conditions-a nature
less passionate, in contact with the world and responsive to varied
interests; but not with Easter -alone with a love that had shamed
him, with mountain, earth, and sky unchanged, and the vacant days
marked only by a dreary round of wearisome tasks.
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