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Chapter 37

           thesofteyes—thetendermouth—didnotthesesuggestthesweetestlove,thepurestpassionthateverfoundplaceinawoman’sheart?Ilostmyselfindreamymusing—Ithoughtofmanythingsthathadlittletodowitheithermyownpastorpresent.IrealizedthatnowandthenatrareintervalsGodmakesawomanofgeniuswithathinker’sbrainandanangel’ssoul—andthatsuchanoneisboundtobeadestinytoallmortalslessdivinelyendowed,andaglorytotheworldinwhichshedwells.Soconsidering,IstudiedMavisClare’sfaceandform—Isawhereyesfillwithtearsasshereadon;—whyshouldsheweep,Iwondered,overthat‘lastdocument’whichhadleftmeunmovedandcallous?Iwasstartledalmostasiffromsleepwhenhervoice,thrillingwithpain,disturbedthestillness—shesprangup,gazingatmeasifshesawsomehorriblevision.

           "Oh,areyousoblind,"shecried,"asnottoseewhatthismeans?Canyounotunderstand?Doyounotknowyourworstenemy?"

           "Myworstenemy?"Iechoedamazed—"Yousurpriseme,Mavis—whathaveI,ormyenemiesorfriendstodowithmywife’slastconfession?Sheraved—betweenpoisonandpassion,shecouldnottell,asyouseebyherfinalwords,whethershewasdeadoralive—andherwritingatallundersuchstressofcircumstanceswasaphenomenaleffort—butithasnothingtodowithmepersonally.

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