He was in this state
when he met HER. He always afterward referred to her so. He was at a
reception when he came upon her on a stairway. A casual word about his
life, a smile flashed from her large, dark, luminous eyes, lighting up
her face, and Henry Floyd awoke. She had called him from the dead. It
was a case of love at first sight. From that time he never had a thought
for anyone else, least of all for himself. He lived in her and for her.
He blossomed under her sympathy as a tree comes out under the sunshine
and soft breath of spring. He grew, he broadened. She was his sun, his
breath of life; he worshipped her. Then one day she died--suddenly--sank
down and died as a butterfly might die, chilled by a blast. With her
Henry Floyd buried his youth. For a time people were sympathetic; but
they began immediately to speculate about him, then to gossip about him.
It made no difference to him or in him. He was like a man that is dead,
who felt no more. One thing about a great sorrow is that it destroys all
lesser ones. A man with a crushed body does not feel pinpricks. Henry
Floyd went on his way calmly, doggedly, mechanically. He drifted on and
was talked about continually. Gossip would not let him alone, so she did
him the honor to connect his name with that of every woman he met. In
fact, there was as much reason to mention all as one. He was fond
of women, and enjoyed them. Women liked him too. There was a certain
gentleness mingled with firmness, a kind of protecting air about him
which women admired, and a mystery of impenetrable sadness which women
liked. Every woman who knew him trusted him, and had a right to trust
him. To none was he indifferent, but in none was he interested. He was
simply cut off. A physician who saw him said, "That man is dying of
loneliness." This went on for some years. At last his friends determined
to get him back into society. They made plans for him and carried them
out to a certain length; there the plans failed. Floyd might be led up
to the water, but none could make him drink; there he took the bit in
his teeth and went his own way. He would be invited to meet a girl at a
dinner got up for his benefit, that he might meet her, and would spend
the evening hanging over a little unheard-of country cousin with a low
voice and soft eyes, entertaining her with stories of his country days
or of his wanderings; or he would be put by some belle, and after
five minutes' homage spend the time talk