Here was, at least, a step which he thought blameless;
here was a way out of his troubles. He sat down to write to
Seraphina; and his anger blazed. The tale of his forbearances
mounted, in his eyes, to something monstrous; still more monstrous,
the coldness, egoism, and cruelty that had required and thus
requited them. The pen which he had taken shook in his hand. He
was amazed to find his resignation fled, but it was gone beyond his
recall. In a few white-hot words, he bade adieu, dubbing
desperation by the name of love, and calling his wrath forgiveness;
then he cast but one look of leave-taking on the place that had been
his for so long and was now to be his no longer; and hurried forth -
love's prisoner - or pride's.
He took that private passage which he had trodden so often in less
momentous hours. The porter let him out; and the bountiful, cold
air of the night and the pure glory of the stars received him on the
threshold. He looked round him, breathing deep of earth's plain
fragrance; he looked up into the great array of heaven, and was
quieted. His little turgid life dwindled to its true proportions;
and he saw himself (that great flame-hearted martyr!) stand like a
speck under the cool cupola of the night. Thus he felt his careless
injuries already soothed; the live air of out-of-doors, the quiet of
the world, as if by their silent music, sobering and dwarfing his
emotions.
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