"It IS an evil fate," said Gervase gloomily. "Enfin, my dear Helen, we cannot escape from it,--at least, I cannot. But I never was intended for good things, not even for a lasting love. A lasting love I feel would bore me. You look amazed; you believe in lasting love? So do many sweet women. But do you know what symbol I, as an artist, would employ were I asked to give my idea of Love on my canvas?"
Helen smiled sadly and shook her head.
"I would paint a glowing flame," said Gervase dreamily. "A flame leaping up from the pit of hell to the height of heaven, springing in darkness, lost in light; and flying into the centre of that flame should be a white moth--a blind, soft, mad thing with beating, tremulous wings,--that should be Love! Whirled into the very heart of the ravening fire,--crushed, shrivelled out of existence in one wild, rushing rapture--that is what Love must be to me! One cannot prolong passion over fifty years, more or less, of commonplace routine, as marriage would have us do. The very notion is absurd. Love is like a choice wine of exquisite bouquet and intoxicating flavor; it is the most maddening draught in the world, but you cannot drink it every day. No, my dear Helen; I am not made for a quiet life,--nor for a long one, I fancy."
His voice unconsciously sank into a melancholy tone, and for one moment Helen's composure nearly gave way. She loved him as true women love, with that sublime self-sacrifice which only desires the happiness of the thing beloved; yet a kind of insensate rage stirred for once in her gentle soul to think that the mere sight of a strange woman with dark eyes,--a woman whom no one knew anything about, and who was by some people deemed a mere adventuress,--should have so overwhelmed this man whose genius she had deemed superior to fleeting impressions. Controlling the tears that rose to her eyes and threatened to fall, she said gently, "Good-bye, Monsieur Gervase!"
He started as from a reverie.
"Good-bye, Helen! Some day you will think kindly of me again?"
"I think kindly of you now," she answered tremulously; then, not trusting herself to say any more, she turned swiftly and left him.
"The flame and the moth!" he mused, watching her slight figure till it had disappeared. "Yes, it is the only fitting symbol. Love must be always so. Sudden, impetuous, ungovernable, and then--the end! To stretch out the divine passion over life-long breakfasts and dinners! It would be intolerable to me. Lord Fulkeward could do that sort of thing; his chest is narrow, and his sentiments are as limited as his chest. He would duly kiss his wife every morning and evening, and he would not analyze the fact that no special thrill of joy stirred in him at the action. What should he do with thrills of joy--this poor Fulkeward? And yet it is likely he will marry Helen. Or will it be the Courtney animal,--the type of man whose one idea is 'to arise, kill, and eat?' "Ah, well!" and he sighed. "She is not for me, this maiden grace of womanhood. If I married her, I should make her miserable. I am made for passion, not for peace."