'I have considered our conversation, and your unjustifiable interference.
I am entirely in your hands: at the mercy of your extraordinary notions of
duty. Tell her what you will, if you must; and pave the way to your own
success. I shall say nothing; but I swear you love the girl yourself; and
are no right arbiter here. Sebastian Murch.'
He read the note through twice before he grasped its purport; then sat
holding it in lax fingers, his face grown singularly gray.
'It's not true, it's not true,' he cried aloud, but a moment later knew
himself for a self-deceiver all along. Never had self-consciousness been
more sudden, unexpected, or complete. There was no more to do or say; this
knowledge tied his hands. _Ite! missa est!_...
He spent an hour painfully invoking casuistry, tossed to and fro
irresolutely, but never for a moment disputing that plain fact which
Sebastian had so brutally illuminated. Yes! he loved her, had loved her all
along. Marie-Yvonne! how the name expressed her! at once sweet and serious,
arch and sad as her nature. The little Breton wild flower! how cruel it
seemed to gather her! And he could do no more; Sebastian had tied his
hands. Things must be! He was a man nicely conscientious, and now all the
elaborate devices of his honour, which had persuaded him to a disagreeable
interference, were contraposed against him.
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