True love is faithful, and Alick Corfield's love was true. Had all the
world forsaken her, he would have remained immovable in his old place
and attitude of devotion--the one fixed idea always possessing him to
find her in her retreat and restore her to self-respect and happiness by
his undying love. But how to find her? All sorts of mad projects passed
through his brain, but mad projects need some methods, and methods in
harmony with existing conditions, if they are to bring success; and
Alick's vague resolves to go out and look for her had no more meaning in
them than the random moves of a bad chessplayer.
Had Sir Lancelot lived at the present time, he would have gone to
Camelot by express, like meaner souls; and had Sir Galahad set out on
his quest in the latter half of the nineteenth century, he would have
either advertised in the newspapers or have employed a detective for
the first part of his undertaking. So, had Alick gone to Scotland Yard
and taken the police into his confidence, Leam would have been found in
less than a week; but as he shrank from bringing her into contact with
the force mainly associated with crime, he was left to his own devices
unassisted, and these devices ended only in constantly-recurring
disappointment, and consequent increase of sorrow.
His sorrow indeed was so great, and told on him so heavily, that every
one said he was going to die. He had been left thin and gaunt enough by
his illness, but distress of mind, coupled with weakness of body,
reduced him to a kind of sketchy likeness of Don Quixote--his pure soul
and honest nature the only beautiful things about him--while his
mother's heart was as nearly broken as his own.
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