He liked to forget himself in contemplation of Piers Otway's youth
and soundness. He had pleasure, too, in Piers' talk, which reminded
him of Jerome Otway, some half-century ago.
Mrs. Jacks was staying with her own family, and from that house
would pass to others, equally decorous, where John had promised to
join her. Of course she was uneasy about him; that entered into her
role of model spouse: but the excellent lady never suspected the
true cause of that habit of sadness which had grown upon her husband
during the last few years, a melancholy which anticipated his
decline in health. John Jacks had made the mistake natural to such a
man; wedding at nearly sixty a girl of much less than half his age,
he found, of course, that his wife had nothing to give him but duty
and respect, and before long he bitterly reproached himself with the
sacrifice of which he was guilty.
"Soar on thy manhood clear of those
Whose toothless Winter claws at May,
And take her as the vein of rose
Athwart an evening grey."
These lines met his eye one day in a new volume which bore the name
of George Meredith, and they touched him nearly; the poem they
closed gave utterance to the manful resignation of one who has
passed the age of love, yet is tempted by love's sweetness, and John
Jacks took to heart the reproach it seemed to level at himself.
Putting aside the point of years, he had not chosen with any
discretion; he married a handsome face, a graceful figure, just as
any raw boy might have done.
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