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Updated: June 24, 2025
"Except by death, we must not any way Forget our lady who is gone from us." If women were thus henceforth to influence Theophil, why might not Isabel, the woman whom Jenny had loved, be counted amongst them? Isabel was the one woman in the whole world whom Theophil's faithfulness could not transform into Jenny.
"Law! what a taste, to be sure!" had exclaimed the paperhanger's wife as they opened the parcel. "How any one dare live with such patterns is beyond me." The paperhanger's wife verbed better than she knew. Few are those indeed who dare live with beauty. When the paper was hung in Theophil's room, so great was the sensation in the household that even old Mr.
It is to be feared that it was a conscious love of paradox that prompted an invitation from which indeed New Zion must derive the most mystical of benefits and the most imaginary of delights; but it was Theophil's whim to crown the Renaissance in Coalchester by this reductio ad absurdum.
Murder, of course, is one way out of many difficult situations, and the worst kinds of murder are by no means capital offences. It is true that all engagements are not made by the same vital bonds as that of Jenny's and Theophil's, but many are.
In the few moments of silence which followed Jenny's words, it was some such turmoil of feelings and thoughts, questionings and conclusions, which passed through Theophil's mind, at last resolving itself into words that sounded unexpected even in his own ears. "Jenny," he said, "it is quite true that I love Isabel and that she loves me.
As he came to the last entry, he put the book down with a gesture of pain. The last entry had been made the day after Jenny had discovered Theophil's love for Isabel. It was very brief, just a sob: "Have realised that I am no fit wife for Theophil. And yet how I love him!"
The tangle of Theophil's emotions and thoughts, as he listened to Jenny in silence, was a revelation to him of the strange heart of love, and of the insufficiency of those formulas by which we image ourselves to ourselves.
Jenny indeed loved Isabel so much that it might well have proved that her love, with nothing but gladness, could have added its volume to Theophil's, and the three loves, meeting in one river of love, flowed on together to the eternal sea. But the tragic risk! The alternative was heart-break, death. They had vowed to save Jenny from the lightning.
She meant was that all that was left to her of life and love? Downstairs Theophil stood waiting with a beating heart. He sprang to the door and drew the doctor into his room. The doctor laid a kind hand upon his arm, and there was a look in his face that made Theophil's heart die within him. "You mean she is going to die?" he said with fearful calmness. "You mean that?"
In moments of anger this filth and poison of the mind sometimes comes to the surface to wrong us for it is not us, it is in truth just all that we are not. Thus at times in Theophil's mind, that was one prayer of faithful love for Jenny, the thought of Isabel would steal, like so his stern faithfulness pictured it a fair devil in a church.
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