His fortune seemed too good to be real. For he possessed all that ever
fancy had pretended was worth coveting: his life was a perfect happiness.
No doubts from within, no troubles from without, had power to assail him.
All the old, reasonable, practical fears were become ludicrous cowardice,
only remembered for Alison to tease with. As for other people, and what
they said and thought and did, some folks were kind and were welcome, no
folks were of account. He and she deliciously sufficed themselves. And
there was no dread of change, save in age and death, infinitely distant
and insignificant--no matter but to glorify the power of life. Sometimes
he was aware that the wonder of passion must grow faint and fail, but he
saw nothing which could take from him the quiet, exquisite, daily joys.
Was it real, or a charmed dream, this perfect fortune of content? Indeed,
nothing was real in those days but the delight in being with her.
Alison had her share. He did not deceive himself. She had her ecstasies
and her exultations, she thought herself even madder than he was. And in
these days, perhaps, her passion was deeper and stronger than his. She
was satisfied, she felt herself accomplished, and gloried in her new
power with a more profound, a more secret delight than his.
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