Page:Francesca Carrara 2.pdf/300

Rh "What a vain dream it is," exclaimed he, "which we call life! First comes the fever, and then the exhaustion. We wear ourselves out with hopes that, night after night, haunt a sleepless pillow—with daily exertions whereof we reap not the fruit. We love, and are unrequited—we believe, and are deceived; and from first to last, our existence is a mockery—the fulfilled hope and the realised desire the worst of all; for then we find how utterly worthless is that for which we craved, and for which we have toiled even unto weariness. We talk of our energies and of our will—we are the mere playthings of subtle and malignant chances."

"And yet," returned Francesca, "the secret of Arden's sufferings seems to have been in himself. From earliest youth he indulged in vain contrasts and repinings, and even his very love was selfish and cruel. Think how much happiness he lost by his perpetual exaggerations!"

"And from what did that exaggeration arise, but from his morbid and sensitive temperament? Could he help that?"

Francesca felt instantly that Guido had made the subject a personal one—that he was speaking of Arden, but thinking of himself. It could do no good to contradict one whom now it was her dearest