Mary loved another! That idea would rise uppermost in his mind, and
had to be combated in all its forms of pain. It was, perhaps, no
great wonder that she should prefer one so much above Jem in the
external things of life. But the gentleman; why did he, with his
range of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop down
to carry off the poor man's darling? With all the glories of the
garden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--Jem's
own fragrant wild-rose?
His OWN! Oh! never now his own!--Gone for evermore.
Then uprose the guilty longing for blood!--the frenzy of
jealousy!--Some one should die. He would rather Mary were dead,
cold in her grave, than that she were another's. A vision of her
pale, sweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore,
seemed to float constantly before his aching eyes. But hers were
ever open, and contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mute
reproach! What had she done to deserve such cruel treatment from
him? She had been wooed by one whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay,
and bright, and she had given him her love.
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