She thought every line
in the contour of his person the perfection of masculine beauty, his
soul the soul of a saint, his intellect that of a seer. The wisdom
of her love for him, as love, sustained her dignity; she seemed to be
wearing a crown. The compassion of his love for her, as she saw it,
made her lift up her heart to him in devotion. He would sometimes
catch her large, worshipful eyes, that had no bottom to them looking
at him from their depths, as if she saw something immortal before
her.
She dismissed the past--trod upon it and put it out, as one treads on
a coal that is smouldering and dangerous.
She had not known that men could be so disinterested, chivalrous,
protective, in their love for women as he. Angel Clare was far from
all that she thought him in this respect; absurdly far, indeed;
but he was, in truth, more spiritual than animal; he had himself
well in hand, and was singularly free from grossness. Though not
cold-natured, he was rather bright than hot--less Byronic than
Shelleyan; could love desperately, but with a love more especially
inclined to the imaginative and ethereal; it was a fastidious emotion
which could jealously guard the loved one against his very self.
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