Letters to Women in Love

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 21, 25 May 1907, Page 15

Letters to Women in Love

THE JEALOUS WOMAN

By

Mrs. J. Van Vorst

I. To Mrs. Eliabeth Aiken, Tuxedo, New York:— I was glad to receive your letter, and that you wrote directly without waiting for a further presentation than the recommendation given you by Jane Cairesbrooke through her friendship for me

and lier kindly confidence in my capacity to help you in your present perplexities. Certain questions, however,! must put. and you must be good enough to answer them as you would those of a doctor whom you want to have to diagnose your sufferings. Sincere you will be. of that I am sure, since you have already written to me in this spontaneous manner, telling me that you are unhappyunhappy because you are jealous. From Jane, of course. 1 know something of your life, and the peculiar circumstances under which you were brought up. She has told me that you were adopted when you were a small child by Mrs. Winthrope, a second wife of your own uncle. Now this Mrs. Winthrope, who is in reality no relation to you, has an only son by her first marriage. This son, Nicolas Wainright by name, naturally grew up in the same house and under the same influences with you, and from what Jane has given me to understand he has always been like a brother to you. That you married very young, and that you have been many years a widow 1 have heard also through our mutual friend. This is only a smattering of what I must be told. So now prepare for my questions! First of all —and this ent re nous, of course —how old are you? M hen I know this I shall have my surest clue in guiding you to combat successfully the “ green-eyed monster.” If you are jealous, does it go without saying you must be in love? There are those who pretend that the two sentiments are inseparable, and that anyone who ignores this peculiar unreasoning master of our reason cannot imagine

what love is. Such is not my opinion. Without going into details, it is safe to affirm that love alone arouses jealousy in the masculine mind. With women it is not so. We, alas, often continue all the symptoms, the trying, tormenting symptoms of the disease, when the malady itself is eared. To be more explicit: a woman may go on being jealous when

her love has turned to hatred. I do not take this to be your case. Tlie matter of age, upon which 1 insist in a way that may seem to you indiscreet, is important for this reason, that it determines what course of action one should pursue towards the object of one’s passion. To make a rule—rather sweeping, perhaps, as all rules are —if you arc twenty, twenty-live, possibly twenty-six, there is but one thing for you to do; render jealous the man of whom you are jealous yourself. This is youth's privilege, to assert its charm. Now. on the other hand, if you have doubled your twenties, and entered the "serious" age. you must learn to be indulgent. The power of these later years lies in their accumulated memories, and the bond which holds the man you love to this common past is your present tenderness. If you are twenty, have confidence in yourself. If you are forty, have confidence in the man you love. Let us not go further until I have received your answer to my first question. In writing I must ask you also to tell me more about yourself and about the man you love. Tell me how he occupies himself and what you do with your leisure; for it is a man’s duties and a woman’s pleasures which most surely indicate their characters. 11. To the same: Your letter lias come, and 1 see that you respond to my question as though I were really a doctor endeavouring to diagnose your ease. Among the .answers you give there are some which

please me. Others I find unfavourable to our cause. The man you love, this Nicolas W’ainright. with whom you have been brought up—as a sister, the world supposes, little initiated this man is a doctor. Here we go from bad to worse. No profession so cuts a man oil’ from the woman who loves him. Now. the door scarcely closes behind him when the old jealousy returns. You torture yourself with such reflections as this: “lie pretends that he has gone to treat a patient. lie is tired of me already— this is worse than any sickness Finally, in our list of unfortunate facts, there is that of your age. which. alas.no power can alter. You are thirtyeight. A wonderful time, no doubt, for a woman. The rose is never so sweet nor so brilliant as when it is full blown. Provided that wind and rain deal gently, and leave it thus blooming for a few days at the most. we fool with sadness, as we look at it. that to-morrow it must fade. Its petals, unfurled, will fall one by one to the earth, leaving it reft of beauty. Thus melancholy steals into the hours that should be only joyful, as the shadows forecast the night while tin' sun is yet high. Melancholy has no colour of its own. It takes form and light from our ruling passions. If your ruling passion is jealousy, melancholy will whet it as the penal magnifies the sound of the piano. The reasons why a jealous woman should, as the years advance, dread losing her influence over the man she loves are too apparent. T shall not dwell upon jthem\ Though indeed has been said about that side of the balance which gives us cause for anxiety. Let us now have a glance at the reassuring evidence. Tn the first place. T am delighted that you are so feminine. You don’t care a bit about reforming humanity. You are much more preoccupied over the ex-

quisiteness of your own home. You wish everything to be perfect in your hoii'C and housekeeping; and you are quite right. There is no surer way of fixing the tenderness of a man than by letting him feel that you want to make the place where you receive him a sanctuary of this tenderness. You are right in giving your personal attention to your clothes. Money is not alone enough to give. Men don't know anything about “shirring” ami “gather-

ing” and “bias folds,” but they are an quick as a Dash to distinguish and appreciate the little touch you have added with your own hand io a dressmaker’s creation.

Ono of the great secrets of happiness for a woman is this power to enjoy what gives pleasure to the man. Since circumstances do not permit you to marry the man you love (for you tell me that so long as Mrs. Wintliorpe lives there is no chance of your becoming the wife of Nicolas Wainright), I am not sorry that you had no children by your first marriage. The children of a fat her who no longer holds the first place in their mother’s heart are a source of anxiety and annoyance. They oblige a woman to lead two distinct lives; one as a mother, and one as an amoureuse. A contradiction arises in her state of mind, and she ends by beingunable to devote herself wholly to either of the roles.

The maternal instinct is not lacking in you. You tell me you have a menagerie of dogs and birds and animals of all sorts! The dependence of these creatures upon you is a comfort in your existence. You like to feel that they need yon. This longing to be indispensable is one of woman's charms. It is one of the forces of her love.

If you give up to your suspicions without possessing any proofs, it must be that you are terribly afraid of losing

Nicolas Wainright. He must Ire absolutely necessary to your happiness. “You can't Jive without him.” Thin is a power in itself, but, dear, what bail use yon are making of it! The true love of a man and a woman for each other is too rare and precious a thing to be destroyed. If its safety is threatened by the overweening pride of one or of the other, this pride should in the. end harness itself submissively to love’s triumphal chariot. You will say that ■I am becoming poetical. The subject is perhaps conducive, but 1 hope you will find some grains of eommonsensc scattered among my flowery phrases! 111. To the same: I have just read your note, or rather bulletin, received this morning. I am glad you agree with me in recognising the ingenuity of jealousy. So far as I ean judge, however, your state of mind is no more calm than it was before. .Vet, from the medical point of view, I can't see that you have been ‘‘exposed’ to the “attack” which you seem to fear. You have no real ground for jealousy. You have suspicions. You have no proof. If it were not for these suspicions, you tell me, you would be blissful. Alas, this only confirms my opinion that it is very hard for a woman not to be miserable, even when she in happy! .Which anomaly has its cause in the very way women love. Puzzled by certain eases which came up liefore him. Judge Parry, I remember, asked mo one day : “Why is it that a woman can't forgive a man for drinking when she would forgive the same man for committing a thefU!” 1 answered that I supposed it was been use t he man who has stolen or dishonoured his name is in dire need of his wife to sustain him. And so I believe it. to be. A woman will remain more attached to a thief who has need of her than to a genius who ean get along Without her! Yet, if we will but recognise it. there are always ways in which a man is helpless enough to employ all our tenderness. The truth is we want a man to need us in our way, not in his own; and this is the great menace to happiness. When a man is falling in love he abdi cates momentarily his egoism. The expression “a man is paying attention to a woman” exactly describes his psychological condition. Literally he is paying attention to her tastes, her likes and dislikes, to his own manner of pleasing J-er, to the anticipation of the least desire on her part, and the suppression of anything in himself—even his favourite hobby—which may disgust her. This makes of him a most charming companion! It would be quite enough to explain that some girls postpone the

hour of marrying; while so many men are “paying attention” to them, they are perfectly happy. Onee the honeymoon is over the man begins to “pay attention” to himself, and to his work, if he has any. This is horribly irritating. The most natural thing is to say “he, doesn’t love me as he used to.” Perhaps he doesn't in just the same way—in your way. Hut what, after all, would be the outcome of “ your way ” 1

The fact that you and Dr. Warnright must prolong your courtship because circumstances make it impossible for yon io marry renders the conditions of this courtship different from the ordinary. Y'ou would not have him give up his aareer? Y’ou love him for what he is and docs, don’t you? Yet there is in you an obscure jealousy of his occupation, which takes him from you. You love him for the very thing that makes you unhappy. What does this contradiction mean? We must analyse it, but not to day. IV. To the same: Yours received yesterday. Accept my congratulations on the clever way you have shown the limits of your soul. Given your own diagram, it is not difficult to ” locate ” your malady. It lies in the realm of the feelings.

Some wise person has said: “Don't have any feeling that ean be hurt.” Y’ou might interpret this as a recommendation to Jet your heart become as a stone. Not at all! What it means is that your intelligence should stand side by side with your sensibilities, and that one should control and the other should soften. But to return io your hurt feelings. Nothing is more disheartening and irritating than the sniffling, sensitive woman. Y’ou ean hear her husband roaring at her: “ Didn’t you know I didn't mean it? ” She confesses she, knew he didn’t, but she goes on crying! Men go to the other extreme. Their intelligence and will power are generally more developed than their sensibilities, so that half the time they don’t even know what it is they have done to give offence. Confess yourself that a good number of the little things which have caused yon suffering on Dr. Wainright’s part he did not dream could hurt you.

What arc you to do about it? Stop feeling? No, not that. But stop feeling what you know isn’t true. Think first. Reason. Then feel accordingly. It is not so easy, you say? It would not be if we had not at our disposal the Will. By an effort of your will you can bring about the tranquility necessary tn happiness in your relations with Nicolas Wainright. You know he loves you better than anyone in the world. Then, by your will, make yourself believe it, and act as though it were true. V. To the same: Your telegram is a shock. I gather from it that .Doctor Wainright has been injured in a runaway accident. I an; writing Jane to give me news at onee, knowing that you will be too much overcome. Courage, my dear friend. VI. To the same: Jane’s letter lias come in answer to mine. She gives me sad news indeed! Doctor Wainright has nai'rowly escaped with his life, he who does nothing but save the Jives of others. If those heavy trucks had not happened to be on the road to pinion his carriage as it passed, the horse and all would probably have dashed over the ravine into the lake. It is frightful to think of, and 1 eau

imagine the state you were in and the shock you had wbwi-yoii heard that the» doctor had been picked, up unconscious. Jt is like a horrible nightmare from which you are just awakening. The worst is over, Jane, tells me, and at once the thought has flashed through my mind that perhaps now your jealousy will be cured ohce and for all. You might have fancied in a moment of excitement that a slight indifference on Wainright’s part was the Worst ■ thing that eould happen to you—that you were really unhappy. But you have watched him now through hours of unconsciousness, when it has seemed to you—l do not doubt it —that you would be willing to have him indifferent for the rest of your life if he could only get well again!

1 say- you have “watched” him, for Jane gives me at least one good bit of news. Together with this wound, you have received something in tlie nature of a healing balm.. Wainwright’s mother, Mrs Winthorpe, has begged you to come and help her nurse the patient! In the face of such anxiety she has departed from her egoism for the time being at least. She makes an appeal to your tenderness to care for her son. Beware, my dear, that you don’t fall ever so slightly into Mrs Winthorpe’s egoism by your very delight in monopolising your invalid.

You certainly couldn't want him to be sick all the time? Yet you have never been so happy as. now? Does this mean, then, that your happiness depends upon the destiny of others fulfilling some abnormal conditions? Isn’t this like your dear adopted aunt? But you will think me a kill-joy.

One thing at all events I can assure you, which is, that, no matter how ill you might be, Nicolas—or any other man, and just because lie is a man —would be incapable of caring for you with the assiduity which you have shown during this illness. Men need a little “outside element.” They’ must have fresh air, change of scene, they waiit the news, and contact with their fellow-creatures, however serious may’ be the anxieties of their home life. Too much application on the part of some womanly companion wrung for her, from a celebrated poet, the trying appellation of "Horrible angel of devot ion!’’ Don't be cross with me. I am only’ try ing to bring a little ■■outside element'' into your sick room. VII. To the same: Y’our telegram just received. I am perfectly’ bewildered. You tell me not to write further, but I cannot help it. 1 must know what has happened. You say all is broken off for ever between you and Doctor Wainright. YVhat does it mean? Do, out of pity for your unknown friend, send a line of explanation. VIII. To the same: Y’our second telegram came just as I had sent out my hasty note to you. T am glad that there seems a glimmer of light for you. I hope it comes from yourself. Your letter should reach me to-morrow. Meanwhile, have courage. And above all, don’t, like most of us women when we have found out something that makes us miserable, try to get proofs to confirm it! IX. To the same: At last your letter has come. It sounds in my ears like the cry of a wounded bird. Poor, dear friend, 1 pity yon truly. Yet, we need not dwell upon self-commiseration. In action alone is there any relief from suffering. But first of all, let me see—your letter is written so confusedly and in such haste —whether I have really grasped the situation. At Doctor Wainwright’s request one morning you hail come back into his room in the best of spirits, your heart overflowing with tenderness, etc., when he asked you to find for him a certain business letter from some, medical faculty, which bad been in the pocket

of his eoat at the time of the accidot. No one, naturally, in the excitement that had followed, had thought of looking through the doctor’s coat-pockets. So, with proper directions, you found the garment in question. It is from here on that your letter becomes like the recitation of one half mad.

You took out from Nicolas’ pocket the envelope which you supposed to be the one in question. You pulled from between its folds a page written over closely in a woman’s hand. At onee your, eyes fell upon the beginning—your heart seemed to stop beat.ng; you read on, you finished the letter, devouring, as though with the all-sweeping glance of a hawk, every line, every word, every expression of tenderness, of love, of passion, traced in this fine writing of a woman who spoke with the assurance, the authority, the audacity of one who has a right to say what is in her heart because she loves and is loved.

Ah, poor friend! It is useless to say that, having seen the first line, you should have hastily, replaced where you found it this fatal missive. No, that would have been superhuman. Y’ou did what every woman would have done, what Pandora did. But must you suffer as Pandora did? Is it quite the same? Oh, I hope not, and I trust that we can together find some light upon the subject whereby, to guide you again toward the happiness that was filling your life! What seems, more almost than everything else, to be galling to you, is that this person who writes in such a way. to Nicolas is some one you know about -—some one, you protest, so absolutely, inferior to yourself. And if she had been superior? Would that have made it any easier? Wouldn’t it, on the contrary, nave aggravated your sufferings because they were in a measure without remedy? “But they’ are without remedy’, anyway!” I can hear you cry. Perhaps not wholly, if you ean call upon your reason, and not let your feelings “get the better, of you”: above al), if you ean crush your, wounded pride. This is the great affair. The mountain of granite, the wall of iron between you and Nicolas now is this pride outraged. Y'ou would gladly, you say, with more confidence in the unselfishness ‘of your intentions, have kept this discovery’ from Nicolas. But a glance at yourself in th® glass as you turned mechanically to replace the letter revealed sufficiently that there would be no hiding ifrom your friend what your feelings were. Y’ou had not had time even to lay aside your cloak and hat, having arrived only a moment before.

It seemed to you as you lifted your arms to take off' your hat that the very hatpins weighed a thousand tons. Y’ou could not weep. Y’ou trembled, you kept your face averted. “Elizabeth!”

It was YVainrigbt’s voice. A protestation followed of love, an appeal for forgiveness. Nicolas called you to him—you went. It seemed to yon that the touch of his hand on yours was like some poisonous sting. When he tried to put his arms about you, there was a revulsion which showed but too plainly in the expression of terror and displeasure of your face. Even the dread that this emotion might cause him some serious harm in his present condition did not touch you. Y’ou didn’t care. The only thought reiterated in your mind was: "It is finished. It can never be the same!” There was an almost tragic sense of selfjustification in this idea that your suspicions had all been well-founded, that things were worse, more awful, more humiliating than you nad ever supposed them in your most jealous moments. We should never lose sight of the truth which is back of all the conventions that have endeavoured for generations to smother it. 1 may seem paradoxical, but I believe I am right, when I say that in woman jealousy is the end of her power, in man it is the beginning of his authority.

Now, quite on the contrary, forgiveness is the end of a man’s authority and it is a beginning of a woman’s power. Deep down in the Ixittom of your heart, are yon really and truly, vanity apart, jealous of this person who has written to Wainright? Do you suppose that any sentiment he may have had for her has in any way disturbed or diminished the uninterrupted devotion he has, for so many years, shown you? Jt may, and sometimes does, amuse a man that you should lie jealous wheii there is no reason for it. It is a tacit admission on your part, not unflattering

t* him, that his charm is sufticient to attract an admiration which could rival your own. Tlrts vague anxiety regarding au anonymous, impersonal being who represents a possibility rather than an {Kisting state of affairs, is not displeasing.

But there is nothing more humiliating to a man’s very marrow than the spectacle of this revulsion brought about iu the woman he loves by a tangible proof that she is not able completely to fill his life.

Why is it, when a woman loves a man, that it makes no difference to her, as a rule, what his past has been? Isn’t this indifference equivalent on Jier part to an avowal that what he has done in bygone days—however recent —may be to him as though it had not been? Timt is to say, that there arc certain experiences through which a man may pass, not unscathed exactly—that is not the word —but without their having in the slightest degree modified him, diminished him, augmented him, or in any way taken possession of or invaded that part of him which we call the “soul.” If this passing fancy, this adventure, this incident, which a letter has revealed io you, had been something in the past, would you not have said: “Of course, I’m not jealous; Nicolas never really eared for her.” It’s not in the past, though. This letter has a recent date, several days only before the doctor’s accident. Perhaps one of the very times when he was most lovely to you he had just received such a letter! . . . The thought is unbearable. Remember that the future is as much yours as the present. You have two courses of action open to you—forgiveness and persecution. You can’t forgive him. Or, at least, you say that, even if yon did, you eould not forget; things would never be the same. Who knows—they might be better? By persecution, even silent —which is the most subtle and ugly sort—at what end will you arrive? You will gradually alienate from you the man whom you love belter than anything in the World. It will be your.own work, deliberate, determined. In Doctor Wainright’s attitude toward you there was never anything that trjjly, justly, you could reproach. Whatever may have been his feelings for the person whose letter you found in his, keeping, they in no way affected him, so that you could not be—only a week ago—perfectly happy' with him. By' persecution you will give substance to ;i phantom. This incident will take, in Wainright’s mind even, an importance which you know he himself did not give it. The question to ask yourself is this: “Do you love Nicolas Wainright? Yes or no? ” Tell me frankly', and let me know also whether you want me to write again. Perhaps I offend you by' my bard reasoning. Don’t fancy lam not pitying you. ’ X. To the same: You have made, your own choice. You might have stayed and tried to forget; •you preferred leaving. You owed it, you say, to the sincerity of your love for the past not to lie to Wainright to-day. I can quite understand your feelings; yet, after affirming all this as though you were absolutely sure of yourself, and convinced that you had chosen the better part, you seem traversed by a shade of anxiety. You ask me in rather an appealing accent whether I approve of you. With the same “shade of anxiety” in my voice I respond: “Yes 1 approve of you. If things were exactly as you represent .them you would bo in the right. It is always} a mistake, to give way to one’s passions pf any sort. But there are l imes when it would' be better to sacrifice yourself and others with one felt swoop than to feign a sentiment which is insincere, and which you cannot keep up. WhaU so irrevocable as tho mask that falls, revealing the truth to tho culprit at the moment he fancies himself pardoned ?”

I imagine there is a quiver of uncertainty in your tone as you ask:

“Am I right?” You are not wholly convinced. Indeed this very hesitation suggests to my mind that your leaving Wainright jwas wrong. Question your own conscience. Before you receive this response pf mine it will answer like a judge, if you put yourself face to face with it in this way: .“Before you discovered that letter, wa»

Nicholas, do you believe, sincere in hi« munifi-stations of tenderness?” As conscience tolerates only the truth, you answer: “Yes. He was sincere.” “Then how do you explain this letter?” . “I don’t explain it. I can’t.” “Is it your reason that is shocked?” “No, my feelings.” . This, I recognise, means, that your awful sufferings are all the more keen. It is undeniably awful, what has happened; but perhaps with effort and patience you might be able to understand how this man who loves you could possibly have done a thing which causes you genuine misery. You are back again in your own home. Since the fatal morning when you discovered the letter you have not seen the doctor. You are living in that painful atmosphere between old memories that are happy ana recent distressing souvenirs. You recollect a thousand little acts on Wainright’s part whose very loveliness is poisoned by comparison with the unpardonable act which reflects its disfiguring light upon all the rest. I believe you are in the most trying position a woman can be in. No one, perhaps, but yourself can help you. I should be glad, however, if you wish, to go step by step with you over the ground, trying to discern -this 1 believe is what you want me. to do, end it is certainly what I want to do—any facts that can plead in favour of Wainwright and against your decision. XL To the same: “Yes,” you say, “help me!” You are suffering in the very isolation you have imposed upon yourself. Mrs. Winthorpe. naturally indignant at your .sudden disappearance, has not written you once, in spite of your protests lions to her that you returned beenuse you were ill. Nicolas has sent you n letter every day

—“the most beautiful you have ever received from him”—but he tells you nothing of his health; he speaks only of his distress at having caused this separation. Yet your state of mind remains unchanged. You are in that condition described by the nuns —who sometimes suffer it iu their religion—as “hardness of heart.”

You would “give anything” to feel as you used to feel. Love, you argue, is like a plant; if the. roots receive a blow, it never, even though it go on living, can flower again. “O death in life, the days that are no more! . . Stop short here! You are feeding your own morbid malady.

Det us go back and take up the “history of the ease.” You were from the beginning more or less of a victim. At least, so you considered yourself, because of Mrs. Winthorpe’s attitude. This idea that she was keeping you from marrying her son blinded you to the advantages of your’ position. There was in your relations with Doctor Wainright a freedom which is one of love’s first requirements. Marriage, by the legal nature of it, implies an obligation. This you have never felt. You have been free to dispose of your heart as you liked, to fix it in the present attachment as long and after whatever manner you pleased. Between you and the man you love there has been the voluntary give-and-take, whose very motives may be- polluted by the suspicion of an obligation or the certainty of dependence. Thus, from the point of view of mere love, your freedom should have appeared to you in not unfavourable colours. Doctor Wainwright, on the contrary, had much to suffer from it. If it was sweet for him to feel that your loyalty bound you to him without the formality of a law. it was bitter to be thus indebted to you, and to be deprived at the same time of offering you that protection which any man longs to give to the woman he loves.

As the years go on there is something infinitely dear in the habit <ny attachment implies. The man. counting no longer upon his youth alone to please, turns with loving gratitude to the woman who, to the end. shows him all the indulgence .which make past attainments seem a present recollection.

Yet, as a matter of fact, whither did this separation, caused by Mrs. Winthrope, which should have been nn additional bond between you, lead? It made you terribly exacting and who is exacting is often unjust. It made you restless, dissatisfied, frequently capricious.

The truth is, we spend our life clioasing day by day between the lesser of two evils. ■ ‘ !

Who knows how miserable you might have been married to Nicolas? Who knows how blissful you might have been just as you were? What advantage did you take of your opportunities for being h'appy? How many were the times when your greeting was cold, distrait, because of a suspicion lurking in your mind?

Perhaps you failed him on the very days he most needed a welcome that would give him courage, gladden him. You spent sometimes the first half of your hour together in suspicious mistrust because lie was, perhaps, a trifle late, and the last half-hour you passed in reproach fulness because he had to leave you early. It was only when you got to the door with him wild felt ho was going, and that you had been given your chance and missed it, that, with a pang of regret , you tried in an instant to show him all the tenderness that was really in your heart! Too late, perhaps? Men arc such a mixture of weakness and strength! Perhaps it. was at such a time that he turned, weary and disheartened, toward someone who made a habit of being always as amiable as she showed herself iu the unfortunate, letter you came across? Who knows? Perhaps this person whom you look upon as “inferior” was the rival, not of you. not of your own true, best and loving self, blit the rival of your caprices, the rival of your mistrustful humours, the rival of your failure to make, to want to make, Nicolas Wtiinright happy. Don’t you still care to do this? Are you softening ever so little? Gothe had said of this constant selection which presents itself at every- turning by the way in life: “Choose well; your choice is brief and yet endless.” It is undoubtedly' better to leave Nicolas and make yourself miserable than to stay and make him miserable; but, to tell the truth, you are both miserable. With a single gesture of forgivenness you can wipe out this memory that is causing you both to suffer.

Wainright would not respect you, you argue, if you were so lenient with him. Try it and see. Go to him as soon a s vou can.

Say' to him this:' “I love you, and that love is the only thing that should count between us. I am horribly hurt. I know that you couldn’t have thought much of a person whose letters you could entirely forget. I am perfectly' sure she never played any real part in your life, nor was in any way a rival. I can’t—in spite of everything. I don’t—doubt your love for me. Only .... I am wounded to the very depths. My pride is embittered. Give me time, Nicolas. You will forget this, of course, and soon, and I am determined that I will forget it, too. You must help me. I feel it would be absolutely wrong for me to continue thinking of this tiling when it has gone out of your mind. All I ask is a little time to forget everything but my love for you.” If you could say this I believe you would obtain a place In Nicolas’ heart beyond the reach of any caprice, any passing infidelity' of word or deed.

There is no end of harm done to our town (characters by moral resistance. Paul’s command to us was not to resist evil, but to overcome it by good. Tn like manner we should not resist jealousy, but overcome it with love. Now I have written a letter without end. You are tired, and so should I be if all I said had not come from my heart. I should consider it a good sign if for some time I did not hear from you. Pride lias a certain shame about owning that it is vanquished XII To the same: I have been three months expecting an answer that did not come, but it was worth waiting for. It gives me the news ■I wanted. You are happy. It will “never bo quite, quite the same,” you say. This is only to alarm me, for you add: “But it may be better!” You waited unit! Nicolas was well and could come for you. This was your right. Ho realised meanwhile as he never had just what you were in his life, and how terrible existence would be without you. There is much in knowing tho worth of what wo possess. . . . Mrs Winthrope, not with any good grace, but as n sort of pis nllcr, is yielding in your favour, and this just, as you were about reconciled lo the idea of being

happy even though you couldn’t marry Nicolas!

■ I have often observed that the moai. rapid way for us women to get a thing is to stop wanting it. When we do want a thing there is in our desire a sort of intensity which causes us often to defeat our own ends. It is the same way in dreams; if we try too hard to see a thing the effort wakes us up! Jealousy in like manner brings an end to the dream of love. All awakenings are hard for us. They why seek the perpetual insomnia of suspicion? Best, on the contrary, iu the happy unconsciousness of confidence and of love. Apply your indifference aptly. This choice between what is and what is not essential constitutes all the difference between nobility and meanness, in love as in life, hi order not to .suffer u great deal, be sometimes willing lo suffer a little, and be always ready to enjoy. XIII. To the same: I have received the letter written by you and Doctor Wainright together. You will read over my old epistles some day, if you have kept them, and laugh, I wish indeed that I might conic to the “quiet little wedding in Grace Church Chapel.” You know, though I cannot ba there, that my thoughts will accompany you to the altar, and will follow you will: interest in your married life. (THE END.}

This article—which commences with excellent illustrations on page 15 of this issue—is one of a series which will he printed in the “Graphic” at intervals. Another will appear next week. It is really capitally and most amusingly written, and you should read it.—Editor "Graphic.”