that fate had
worked for his happiness.

And yet there was discontent. He had never known, felt that perhaps he
might never know, that sustained energy of imaginative and sensual
longing which ideal passion demands. The respectable make-believe which
takes the form of domestic sentiment, that everyday love, which, become
the servant of habit, suffices to cement the ordinary household, is not
the state in which such men as Waymark seek or find repose; the very
possibility of falling into it unawares is a dread to them. If he could
but feel at all times as he had felt at moments in Maud's presence. It
might be that the growth of intimacy, of mutual knowledge, would make
his love for her a more real motive in his life. He would endeavour
that it should be so. Yet there remained that fatal conviction of the
unreality of every self-persuasion save in relation to the influences
of the moment. To love was easy, inevitable; to concentrate love
finally on one object might well prove, in his case, an impossibility.
Clear enough to him already was the likelihood of a strong revulsion of
feeling when Ida once more came back, and the old life--if it could
be--was resumed. Compassion would speak so loudly for her; her face,
pale and illuminated with sorrow, would throw a stronger spell than
ever upon his senses. Well, there was no help. Whatever would be, would
be. It availed nothing to foresee and scheme and resolve.

And, in the same hour, Maud was upon her knees, in the silence of her
own chamber, shedding tears which were at once both sweet and bitter,
in her heart a tumult of emotion, joy and thanksgiving at strife with
those dark powers which shadowed her existence. _She_ had do doubts of
the completeness and persistency of her love. But was not this love a
sin, and its very strength the testimony of her soul's loss?

CHAPTER XXVIII

SLIMY'S DAY

Waymark had written to Ida just after her imprisonment began, a few
words of such comfort as he could send. No answer came; perhaps the
prison rules prevented it. When the term was drawing to a close, he
wrote again, to let her know that he would meet her on the morning of
her release.

It would be on a Tuesday morning. As the time drew near, Waymark did
his best to think of the matter quietly. The girl had no one else to
help her; it would have been brutality to withdraw and leave her to her
fate, merely because he just a little feared the effect upon himself of
such a