When Edwin Florence went back to New York, it was with a sense of
interior pleasure more perfect than he had experienced for years;
and this would have remained, could he have shut out the past; or,
so much of it as came like an unwelcome intruder. But, alas! this
was not to be. Even while he was bending, in spirit, over the
beautiful image of his last beloved, there would come between his
eyes and that image a pale sad face, in which reproof was stronger
than affection, It was all in vain that he sought to turn from that
face. For a time it would remain present, and then fade slowly away,
leaving his heart oppressed.
"Is it to be ever thus!" he would exclaim, in these seasons of
darkness. "Will nothing satisfy this accusing spirit? Edith! Dear
Edith! Art thou not among the blessed ones? Is not thy heart happy
beyond mortal conception? Then why come to me thus with those
tearful eyes, that shadowy face, those looks of reproof? Have I not
suffered enough for purification! Am I never to be forgiven?"
And then, with an effort, he would turn his eyes from the page laid
open by Memory, and seek to forget what was written there.
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