That solace of men’s unconscious pessimism, the faith, pathetically clung to, that in frustration of desire is the soul’s health, is but too apt to prove itself fallacious just where its efficiency would show most glorious.  Is there not lurking somewhere in your mind, not withstanding the protests of your realistic intelligence, more than half a hope that Richard Dagworthy will emerge radiant from the gulf into which his passions have plunged him?  For the credit of human nature!  But what if human nature oft establishes its credit by the failures over which we shake our heads?  Of many ways to the resting-place of souls, the way of affliction is but one; cling, if it please you, to the assurance that this is the treading of the elect, instinct will justify itself in many to whom the denial of a supreme need has been the closing of the upward path.  Midway in his life, when slow development waited but occasion to establish the possibilities of a passionate character, Dagworthy underwent the trial destined to determine the future course of his life.  One hesitates to impute it to him as a fault that he was not of the elect.  A mere uneducated Englishman, hitherto balancing always between the calls from above and from below, with one miserable delusion and its consequent bitterness ever active in his memory, he could make no distinction between the objects which with vehemence he desired and the spiritual advantage which he felt the attainment would bring to him; and for the simple reason that in his case no such distinction existed.  Even as the childhood of civilisation knows virtue only in the form of a concrete deity, so to Dagworthy the higher life of which he was capable took shape as a mortal woman, and to possess her was to fulfil his being.  With the certainty that she was beyond his reach came failure of the vital forces which promised so much.  A pity for it flatters us poor mortals to discern instances of the soul’s independence of the body.  I would it had been otherwise with Dagworthy; I have but to relate the facts.  It was no dark angel that had whispered to him through the hours of his waiting for Emily’s surrender.  High aims, pure ambitions, were stronger in him than they ever had been; stronger than they ever would be again.  It was when Emily left him with those proud words of defiance that the veritable demon took stand at his ear.  The leaping, fruitful sap of his being turned itself to gall.  He sat with a brow of blackness; cruel projects worked in his brain.

Not only had he lost her, but his loss was another’s gain.  The pricking of jealousy, for a while suspended, again became maddening.  He had heard her say that she would die rather than be his wife; judge, then, what must be her love of the man she bud chosen.  His desire now was to do her injury, and his fiercest torment was the thought that he dared not fulfil the menace with which he had hoped to overwhelm her.  If he prosecuted Hood, all the circumstances of the