The only point in his favour that Babbacombe, the kindliest of critics,
could discover after a fort-night's patient study, was that the animals
loved him. He conducted himself like a gentleman, but somehow Babbacombe
had expected this much from the moment of their meeting. He sometimes
told himself with a wry face that if the fellow had behaved like a beast
he would have found him easier to cultivate. At least, he would have had
something to work upon, a creature of flesh and blood, instead of this
inscrutable statue wrought in iron.
With a sinking heart he recalled Cynthia's description of the man. To a
certain extent it still fitted him, but he imagined that those twelve
years had had a hardening effect upon him, making rigid that which had
always been stubborn, driving the iron deeper and ever deeper into his
soul, till only iron remained. Many were the nights he spent pondering
over the romance of the woman he loved. What subtle attraction in this
hardened sinner had lured her heart away? Was it possible that the
fellow had ever cared for her? Had he ever possessed even the rudiments
of a heart?
The message he had read in the firelight--the brief line which this man
had written--was the only answer he could find to these doubts. It
seemed to point to something--some pulsing warmth--which could not have
been kindled from nothing. And again the memory of a woman's tears would
come upon him, spurring him to fresh effort.
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