He was weary of passionate outbursts,
tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of
secret love. It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful snow,
that if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light,
that there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced
marches through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit. The more he
allowed his imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew
his longing to possess it. Also, he knew well enough that to marry a
woman like Ida de la Molle would be the greatest blessing that could
happen to him, for she would of necessity lift him up above himself.
She had little money it was true, but that was a very minor matter to
him, and she had birth and breeding and beauty, and a presence which
commands homage. And so it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet
more deeply in love with Ida, and that as he did so his connection
with Mrs. Quest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering in a
passing fit of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became
more and more irksome to him. And now, as he drove leisurely back to
Boisingham, he felt that he had imperilled all his hopes by a rash
indulgence in his trading instincts.
Presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not
tend to improve his already irritable mood.
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