He doubly dazzled her by his birth and
by his celebrity. Not in England only, but throughout Europe, he was a
recognized authority on his own subject. How could she--how could any
woman--resist the influence of his steady mind, his firmness of purpose,
his manly resolution to owe everything to himself and nothing to his
rank, set off as these attractive qualities were by the outward and
personal advantages which exercise an ascendancy of their own? Isabel
was fascinated, and yet Isabel was not at ease. In her lonely moments
she was troubled by regretful thoughts of Moody, which perplexed and
irritated her. She had always behaved honestly to him; she had never
encouraged him to hope that his love for her had the faintest prospect
of being returned. Yet, knowing, as she did, that her conduct was
blameless so far, there were nevertheless perverse sympathies in her
which took his part. In the wakeful hours of the night there were
whispering voices in her which said: "Think of Moody!" Had there been
a growing kindness towards this good friend in her heart, of which she
herself was not aware? She tried to detect it--to weigh it for what it
was really worth. But it lay too deep to be discovered and estimated,
if it did really exist--if it had any sounder origin than her own morbid
fancy. In the broad light of day, in the little bustling duties of life,
she forgot it again. She could think of what she ought to wear on the
wedding day; she could even try privately how her new signature, "Isabel
Hardyman," would look when she had the right to use it.
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