In the fearful illumination of her true
nature, in the broad glare of evil, the little good there might have
been had faded to nothing. It was not possible that she who had married
her husband's murderer within the month could ever have felt one
sincere impulse of love for Raymond Warde, nor that she could ever have
known the slightest real affection for the son whom she had first left
to his fate, and then treacherously cheated of his birthright. The
temple where she had been was still in his heart and mourned her in
emptiness. For nothing else had taken the place of her there; she was
not transformed, she was gone, and had taken with her a lifetime of
tender and gentle memories. When his inward eyes sought her they found
nothing, and their light was quenched in her darkness. She was not as
his father was, dead in fact, but dead in honour. There he lay, as
Gilbert had last looked upon his white face and stiff, mailed form,
himself still, himself as he had been in life and as he was thereafter,
in that place of peace and refreshment where brave men rest. In the
quiet features was reflected forever the truth whereby his life had
been lived; in the crossed hands upon the breast was the last outward
symbol and sign of the simple faith that had been life's guide; in the
strong, straight outlines of a strength splendid in death was the
record of strong deeds well done. Alive, he had been to his son the man
of all others; dead, he was still the man of men, without peer and
without like.
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