full of the passion
of his manhood. He ceased to laugh as he thought of her. A growing sense
of uneasiness, of even fear, took possession of him, and chased away the
high spirits which his mother's acceptable proposal had given rise to.

He sat down again in his easy chair and began to think.

"It is not," he said to himself, "that I have got into any real scrape
with Nina. I have promised to marry her, of course, and I have made love
to her scores and scores of times, but I don't think she has any letters
of mine, and in any case, she is not the sort of girl to go to law with
a fellow. No, I have nothing really to fear on that score. But what
perplexes and troubles me is this: she has got a great power over me.
When I am with her I can't think of any one else. She has an influence
over me which I can't withstand. I want her, and her only. I know it
would ruin me to marry her. She has not a penny; she is an uneducated
poor waif, brought up anyhow. My God, when I think of how I first saw
you, Nina! That London street, that crowd looking on, and the pure young
voice rising up as it were into the very sky. And then the sound
stopping, and the shout from the mob. I got into the middle of the ring
somehow, and I saw you, I saw you, my little darling. Your hand was
clenched, and the fellow who had dared to insult you went down with that
blow you gave him to the ground. Didn't your eyes flash fire, and the
flickering light from that fishmonger's shop opposite lit up your hair
and your pale face. You looked half like a devil, but you were
beautiful, you were superb. Then you saw me, and you must have guessed
that I felt with you and for you. Our souls seemed to leap out to meet
one another, and you were by my side in an instant, kissing my hand, and
raining tears on it. We loved each other from that night; our love began
from the moment we looked at each other, and I love you still--but I
mustn't marry you, little wild, desperate, bewitching Nina, for that
would ruin us both. My God! I wish I had never met you; I am afraid of
you, and that is the fact."

Perhaps it was the unwonted beverage in which he had just indulged,
which gave rise to such eager and impetuous thoughts in the breast of
Captain Bertram. It is certain when he had slept over his mother's
letter he felt much more cool and collected. If he still feared
Josephine Hart, he was absolutely determined not to allow his fears to
get the better of him. He ceased even