Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking
arguments, imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his
self-dissatisfaction--for it was nothing more.
For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because of
his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse of her
confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his miserable
weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him not yet come;
shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure of his own fancied
strength. If it should ever come to be known, what contempt would not
clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of which he had dreamed all
these years! The pulpit, that goal of his ambition, that field of his
imagined triumphs--the very thought of it now for a time made him feel
sick. Still, there at least lay yet a possibility of recovery--not indeed
by repentance, of which he did not seek to lay hold, but in the chance that
no one might hear a word of what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would
never reveal it, and least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he
would of course keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it
had no consequences.
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