air of meditative refinement, this lady probably never made quite
clear to herself her motives in accepting the wooer of fifty-three,
whose life had passed in labours and experiences with which she
could feel nothing like true sympathy. Perhaps it was that she had
never before received offer of marriage; possibly Jerome's eloquent
dark eyes, of which the gleam was not yet dulled, seconded the
emotional language of his lips, and stirred her for the moment to
genuine feeling. For a few months they seemed tolerably mated, then
the inevitable divergence began to show itself. Jerome withdrew into
his reveries, became taciturn, absorbed himself at length in the
study of Dante; Mrs. Otway, resenting this desertion, grew critical,
condemnatory, and, as if to atone for her union with a man who stood
outside all the creeds, developed her mild orthodoxy into a
peculiarly virulent form of Anglican puritanism. The only thing that
kept them together was their common inclination for a retired
existence, and their love of the northern moorland.

Looking back upon his marriages, the old man wondered sadly. Why had
he not--he who worshipped the idea of womanhood--sought
patiently for his perfect wife? Somewhere in the world he would have
found her, could he but have subdued himself to the high seriousness
of the quest. In a youthful poem, he had sung of Love as "the crown
of life," believing it fervently; he believed it now with a fervour
more intense, because more spiritual. That crown he had missed, even
as did the multitude of mankind. Only to the elect is it granted--
the few chosen, where all are called. To some it falls as if by the
pure grace of Heaven, meeting them as they walk in the common way.
Some, the fewest, attain it by merit of patient hope, climbing
resolute until, on the heights of noble life, a face shines before
them, the face of one who murmurs "_Guardami ben_!"