even more of sentiment than of passion. When a man loves a girl whose
mental purity is as absolute as her physical, there is, intermingled
with his love, a leavening quality of reverence, and the result is
a certain purification of his own nature. That Dartmouth had
found himself capable of such a love had been a source of keenest
gratification to him. He had been lifted to a spiritual level which he
had never touched before, and there he had determined to remain.

And to have this pure and exquisite love smirched with the memory of
sin and vulgar crime! To take into his arms as his wife the woman on
whose soul was written the record of temptation and of sin! It was
like marrying one's mistress: as a matter of fact, what else was it?
But Weir Penrhyn! To connect sin with her was monstrous. And yet, the
vital spark called life--or soul, or intelligence, or personal force;
whatever name science or ignorance might give it--was unchanged in
its elements, as his own chapter of memories had taught him. Every
instinct in Sionèd's nature was unaltered. If these instincts were
undeveloped in her present existence, it was because of Weir's
sheltered life, and because she had met him this time before it was
too late.

He sprang to his feet, almost overturning the chair. "I can think no
more to-night," he exclaimed. "My head feels as if it would burst."

He went into his bedroom and poured out a dose of laudanum. When he
was in bed he drank it, and he did not awake until late the next day.