Had she
been, as other girls are, surrounded by friends, accustomed to
society, properly trained, prepared by the tender wisdom of a
loving mother, she would never have cast her proud eyes upon Hugh
Fernely; she would never have courted the danger or run the risk.
As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished a keen
dislike to her husband in her heart--while Ronald yielded to
obstinate pride, and neglected every duty--while both preferred
the indulgence of their own tempers, and neglected the children
the Almighty intrusted to them, Beatrice went on to her fate.
It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful.
Every element of that impulsive, idealistic nature helped on the
tragedy. Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as perhaps no one else
ever did. He idealized himself. To her at length he became a
hero who had met with numberless adventures--a hero who had
traveled and fought, brave and generous. After a time he spoke
to her of love, at first never appearing to suppose that she
could care for him, but telling her of his own passionate worship
how her face haunted him, filled his dreams at night, and shone
before him all day--how the very ground she stood upon was
sacred to him--how he envied the flowers she touched--how he
would give up everything to be the rose that died in her hands.
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