Meanwhile
he was a husband. Perhaps his union should have been emphasized before. The
crown of life had been attained, the vague yearnings, the misread impulses, had
found accomplishment at last. Never again must he feel lonely, or as one who
stands out of the broad highway of the world and fears, like poor Shelley, to
undertake the longest journey. So he reasoned, and at first took the
accomplishment for granted. But as the term passed he knew that behind the
yearning there remained a yearning, behind the drawn veil a veil that he could
not draw. His wedding had been no mighty landmark: he would often wonder
whether such and such a speech or incident came after it or before. Since that
meeting in the Soho restaurant there had been so much to do — clothes to buy,
presents to thank for, a brief visit to a Training College, a honeymoon as
brief. In such a bustle, what spiritual union could take place? Surely the dust
would settle soon: in Italy, at Easter, he might perceive the infinities of
love. But love had shown him its infinities already. Neither by marriage nor by
any other device can men insure themselves a vision; and Rickie’s had been
granted him three years before, when he had seen his wife and a dead man
clasped in each other’s arms. She was never to be so real to him again.
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