Chapter 4

That night Alan slept little. Even at dinner his hostess, Mrs.
Waterton, noticed his preoccupation; and, on the pretext of a
headache, he retired early to his own bedroom. His mind was full
of Herminia and these strange ideas of hers; how could he listen
with a becoming show of interest to Ethel Waterton's aspirations on
the grand piano after a gipsy life,--oh, a gipsy life for her!--
when in point of fact she was a most insipid blonde from the cover
of a chocolate box? So he went to bed betimes, and there lay long
awake, deep wondering to himself how to act about Herminia.

He was really in love with her. That much he acknowledged frankly.
More profoundly in love than he had ever conceived it possible he
could find himself with any one. Hitherto, he had "considered"
this girl or that, mostly on his mother's or sister's recommendation;
and after observing her critically for a day or two, as he might
have observed a horse or any other intended purchase, he had come to
the conclusion "she wouldn't do," and had ceased to entertain her.
But with Herminia, he was in love. The potent god had come upon
him. That imperious inner monitor which cries aloud to a man, "You
must have this girl, because you can't do without her; you must
strive to make her happy, because her happiness is more to you now
ten thousand fold than your own," that imperious inner monitor had
spoken out at last in no uncertain tone to Alan Merrick. He knew
for the first time what it is to be in love; in love with a true and
beautiful woman, not with his own future convenience and comfort.
The keen fresh sense it quickened within him raised him for the
moment some levels above himself. For Herminia's sake, he felt, he
could do or dare anything.

Nay, more; as Herminia herself had said to him, it was her better,
her inner self he was in love with, not the mere statuesque face,
the full and faultless figure. He saw how pure, how pellucid, how
noble the woman was; treading her own ideal world of high seraphic
harmonies. He was in love with her stainless soul; he could not
have loved her so well, could not have admired her so profoundly,
had she been other than she was, had she shared the common
prejudices and preconceptions of women. It was just because she
was Herminia that he felt so irresistibly attracted towards her.
She drew him like a magnet. What he loved and admired was not so
much the fair, frank face itself, as the lofty Cornelia-like spirit
behind it.

And yet,--he hesitated.

Could he accept the sacrifice this white soul wished to make for
him? Could he aid and abet her in raising up for herself so much
undeserved obloquy? Could he help her to become Anathema maranatha
among