, you cannot understand what woman's love is. In days of
happiness I have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart and
exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for me. I was a poor,
uneducated, unbefriended, mountain girl, raised from nothingness
by him. All that I possessed of the luxuries of life came
from him. He gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the world's
respect reflected from his own glory: all this joined to his own undying
love, inspired me with sensations towards him, akin to those with which we
regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I devoted myself to him:
imperfect creature that I was, I took myself to task, that I might become
worthy of him. I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my burning
impatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing thoughts, educating
myself to the best perfection I might attain, that the fruit of my
exertions might be his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He
deserved it all--all labour, all devotion, all sacrifice; I would have
toiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that would please him. I was
ready to quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to live only
with him, for him. I could not do otherwise, even if I had wished; for if
we are said to have two souls, he was my better soul, to which the other
was a perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even fidelity. I
earned that; I deserved it. Because I was mountain bred, unallied to the
noble and wealthy, shall he think to repay me by an empty name and station?
Let him take them back; without his love they are nothing to me. Their only
merit in my eyes was that they were his."

Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to the question of their
entire separation, she replied: "Be it so! One day the period will arrive;
I know it, and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect
companionship, and our masquerade of union, are strangely dear to me. It is
painful, I allow, destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual fever
in my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is instinct with poison. Yet
I must cling to it; perhaps it will kill me soon, and thus perform a
thankful office."

In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and Idris. He was
naturally frank; the continued absence of Perdita and myself became
remarkable; and Raymond soon found relief from the constraint of months, by
an unreserved confidence with his two friends. He r