ed,--Easelmann with the
rest. His enemy could not have wished to see him more completely
miserable. He knew that he must decide, must act; but whatever might be
his determination, he had a most painful duty to perform. Let him do
what he might, he must prove himself a villain. He loathed, detested
himself. Sometimes he was tempted to fly; but then he reflected that he
should in that way prove a scoundrel to two women instead of one. For
three weeks he had not written to Alice, and the last letter he had
received from her was now a month old. He took it from his pocket, where
it lay among the perfumed and tinted evidences of his unfaithfulness. It
was a simple thing, but how the gentle words smote upon his heart!

"MY DEAR GEORGE, (_her_ dear George!)--How I wish I could be with you,
to rejoice over your success! You are really a great artist, the papers
say, and are becoming famous! Not that I love you the more for that. If
you were still unknown to the world, still only a lover of beauty for
its own sake, and content with painting for your own pleasure, I am not
sure that I should not love you the more. But you will believe me, that
I am proud of your success. If I am ambitious, it is for you. I would
have the world see and know you as I do. Yet not as I do,--nobody can
do that. To the world you are a great painter. To me--ah, my dearest
George!--you are the noblest and truest heart that ever woman rested
upon. Nobody but me knows that. I shall be proud of the homage the world
gives you, because at the same time I shall say, 'That is my betrothed,
my husband, whom they praise; what his heart is, no woman knows but
me'"----

He could read no farther. His emotions were too powerful to be borne in
silence. He yielded, and, strong man as he was, bowed his head and wept.
The tears of childhood, and oftentimes the tears of woman, lie shallow;
they come at the first bidding of sorrow or sympathy. But it is no
common event, no common feeling, that prevails over man; nothing less
than a convulsion like an earthquake unseals the fountain of tears in
him. Whoever has seen the agony of a manly nature in groans and tears
and sobs has something to remember for a life-time.

It was a long night,--a night of unutterable suffering, struggle, and
doubt. The hours seemed shod with lead. Sleep seemed banished from the
universe. But with the coming of dawn the tempest was stilled. In the
clear light of day the path of duty seemed plain.