Irene Derwent being now veiled from him,
he turned to another beautiful face, in whose eyes the familiar
light of friendship seemed to be changing, softening. Ambition had
misled him; not his to triumph on the heights of glorious passion;
for him a humbler happiness a calmer love. Yet he would not have
been Piers Otway had this mood contented him. On the second day of
his dreaming about Olga, she began to shine before his imagination
in no pale light. He mused upon her features till they became the
ideal beauty; he clad her, body and soul, in all the riches of
love's treasure-house; she was at length his crowned lady, his
perfect vision of delight.
With such thoughts had he sat by Mrs. Hannaford, at the meeting
which was to be their last. He was about to utter them, when she
spoke Olga's name. "In you she will always have a friend? If the
worst happens----?" And when he asked, "May I hope that she would
some day let me be more than that?" the glow of joy on that stricken
face, the cry of rapture, the hand held to him, stirred him so
deeply that his old love-longing seemed a boyish fantasy. "Oh, you
have made me happy! You have blotted out all my follies and
sufferings!" Then the poor tortured mind lost itself.
This was the second death which had upon Piers Otway the ageing
effect known to all men capable of thoughts about mortality. The
loss of his father marked for him the end of irresponsible years; he
entered upon manhood with that grief blended of reverence and
affection.
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