She would not struggle with this love, or try to conquer it, any more than she would have striven against and tried to destroy her mental and spiritual life. It seemed to be her life, or her soul, or one with both Bee was not metaphysical enough to decide which. Her love, all unrequited, as it seemed, was still the sweetest thing in the world to her and it seemed thus, because in fact it was so well approved by her mind and so entirely unselfish. And certainly the clasp of those baby-arms about her neck, and the nestling of that baby-form to her bosom, drew out all the heart-ache and soothed all the agitation.Įxcept these little occasional pangs Bee had always been blessed in loving. Or if at times, on perceiving Ishmael’s utter obliviousness of her own kindly presence and his perfect devotion to the thankless Claudia, Bee felt a pang, she went and buried herself with domestic duties, or played with the children in the nursery, or what was better still, if it happened to be little Lu’s sleepy time she would take her baby-sister up to her own room, sit down and fold her to her breast and rock and sing her to sleep. That she tacitly left, where it belongs, to God. And being perfectly satisfied with the present, Bee never gave a thought to the future. In loving Ishmael, she found mental and spiritual development and in being near him and doing him good she found comfort and happiness. This love, founded in esteem and honor, had constantly deepened and strengthened.
She had loved him when he was a boy at school when he was a young country teacher when he was a law-student and she loved him now that he was a successful barrister. It was not in Claudia’s power to make his life quite desolate how could it be so while Bee cared for him?īee had loved Ishmael as long as Ishmael had loved Claudia. Permitted to put forth his fullest strengthĪwful as the anguish of his parting with Claudia had been, it was not likely that Ishmael, with his strength of intellect and will, would long succumb to despair.
What seemed the triumph of the Fiend at length Wastes down, and by some deed of shame is finished. The horizon straight is darkened, and a doubtĬlouds all. When every heart is full of hope for man,
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