He had learned, or in a moment of intuition
guessed--all. The power of Basterga, that power over the girl which had
so much puzzled and perplexed him, was his also now, to use or misuse,
hold or resign.

Yet his first feeling was not one of joy; nor for that matter his
second. The impression went deeper, went to the heart of the man. An
infinite tenderness, a tenderness which swelled his breast to bursting,
a yearning that, man as he was, stopped little short of tears, these
were his, these it was thrilled his soul to the point of pain. The room
in which he stood, homely as it showed, plain as it was, seemed
glorified, the hearth transfigured. He could have knelt and kissed the
floor which the girl had trodden, coming and going, serving and making
ready--under that burden; the burden that dignified and hallowed the
bearer. What had it not cost her--that burden? What had it not meant to
her, what suspense by day, what terror of nights, what haggard
awakenings--such as that of which he had been the ignorant witness--what
watches above, what slights and insults below! Was it a marvel that the
cheeks had lost their colour, the eyes their light, the whole face its
life and meaning? Nay, the wonder was that she had borne the weight so
long, always expecting, always dreading, stabbed in the tenderest
affection; with for confidant an enemy and for stay an ignorant! Viewed
through the medium of the man's love, which can so easily idealise where
it rests, the love of the daughter for the mother, that must have
touched and softened the hardest--or so, but for the case of Basterga,
one would have judged--seemed so holy, so beautiful, so pure a thing
that the young man felt that, having known it, he must be the better for
it all his life.

And then his mind turned to another point in the story, and he recalled
what had passed above stairs on that day when he had entered a stranger,
and gone up. With what a smiling face of love had she leant over her
mother's bed. With what cheerfulness had she lied of that which passed
below, what a countenance had she put on all--no house more prosperous,
no life more gay--how bravely had she carried it! The peace and neatness
and comfort of the room with its windows looking over the Rhone valley,
and its spinning-wheel and linen chest and blooming bow-pot, all came
back to him; so that he understood many things which had passed before
him then, and then had roused but a passing and a trifling won