would be guilt in the marriage.
And so it came that Christiane's presence brought him no cheer. There
were moments when his gloom struck him as a sort of illness and he
hoped that it would pass over. But even then he drew no nearer to
Christiane, much as his heart yearned for her. He continued the same
as on that day when he placed the child between him and her. She
remained pure and holy to him.

To the old gentleman with his external sense of honor, a life like
Apollonius' and Christiane's, without the consecration of the church,
was a grave offense. Only under the name of her husband could
Apollonius, without disgrace, be the protector and supporter of the
beautiful young widow and her children. According to his way he
pronounced the ultimatum. He fixed the time for the wedding. The
indispensable half-year of mourning was over; in a week the betrothal
should be announced, three weeks later the marriage should take place.

Life in the house with the green shutters grew more and more sultry.
The new clouds which had gathered invisibly about it threatened a
storm severer than that in which the old ones had been dispelled. The
young widow had no choice but to play the part of the affianced; she
was rallied about her wedding garment, and, adjusting herself to the
situation, she began preparations. Tears fell upon her work, and joy
had an ever smaller and smaller part in it. She saw the condition of
the man she loved become hourly worse; and she could not fail to know
that the approaching marriage was to blame. The paler and more fragile
he became, the gentler and more full of respect was his conduct toward
her. There was something in it that seemed like pitying pain and an
unexpressed prayer for forgiveness of a wrong, an insult of which he
felt himself guilty toward her.

Apollonius was compelled to come to a decision. He could not. The
yawning discord in his soul became ever greater. If he resolved to
renounce happiness, the phantom of guilt disappeared and happiness
stretched out alluring arms toward him. She loved him and had always
loved him, only him; all the world approved, in fact demanded it of
him. He saw her before she had been stolen from him, how she had laid
the little blue-bell down for him, all rosy beneath the brown curling
locks which struggled to be free; then, pale under the ill-treatment
of the brother who had stolen her from him, pale for him; then
trembling before his brother's threats, trembling