to please. I heard a great deal of her from Rupert; he and her husband were first cousins, and though I was directly opposed to her in character and manner, conceived a great admiration for her. I believe she was, in truth, a gentle and amiable person; that to seek to win the love and admiration of all, was as natural to her as for a flower to turn to the light, and I am quite certain she did not measure the wrong she did. She imagined that he could limit himself to the harmless feeling for her, which she entertained for him, and which their relationship sanctioned. She could not conceive the bitterness of the unsatisfied longing she excited. It was like a child playing with gunpowder, but the explosion did not injure herself. Had she only deprived me of Rupert, I could have joyfully forgiven her, but with Rupert I lost my Ida!
“I am speaking of all these things, however, with the lucidity which after-experience gave me. At the time—though I had a confused and mystic apprehension of evil—I had moments and hours of exquisite happiness. No human beings can develop themselves without being the happier for it. Growth is the most felicitous condition of humanity. ‘Yes,’ I thought, in my proud foolish heart, ‘now my life is as it should be. I have linked it to a public aim, and I have scope for those energies and abilities, which equally belong to both men and women. My heart is rich in the affections I have chosen for it. If all women could know, will, and dare, they would be free and happy. Why abide by the fate chosen for us when we were too young to choose for ourselves? Development is the duty of all.’ So it is, but not a one-sided development. With the mind, the soul should grow; and I had forgotten that the human soul can only develop in conformity with the will of God. For our mind’s sake let us give free scope to the artistic tendencies we may possess; but side by side with this is the plain duty, to know mercy and walk humbly with God.
“There was, however, an under-current of discomfort and mortification in this life. I was continually receiving anonymous letters, in which I was, by turn, threatened, accused and warned. In these letters, I was told, I was considered in love with Rupert;—it was proved to me that all suspected it, and that he himself was careless who knew it. It was pointed out to me that however confidential and intimate our relations might be in private, in public he lost no opportunity of slighting me, and showing his want of respect and esteem for me,—that my husband was aware of my conduct, &c. I would tear up these letters, generally, with great indifference and contempt. Some, however, struck home. They were artfully managed, and with a knowledge of both Rupert’s character and mine, and the arrows reached their aim.
“Like all persons who are much absorbed in themselves, Rupert was peculiarly neglectful of little courtesies and ordinary conventionalities. For any advantage to his secret pursuits he would not have hesitated to ask me to do the most extraordinary things. We often sat up all night in the library, writing, discussing, making out accounts. I have ridden thirty miles from the Schloss at a late hour (I was a practised and intrepid rider) to bear some message or give some letter for emissaries, bound on various errands,—traversed Italy, France and Germany, in every direction. My pride—the greatest fault in my character—had certainly been offended by accidental neglects, which were probably unintentional on his part, but which cut not the less deep. Sometimes I would expostulate severely; he would answer carelessly, and that was all. Except, however, for these trifling vexations, my life was a paradise, for Ida was blooming into health and beauty at my side. Yet I was conscious that a few grains of dust had accumulated between the leaves of the book of friendship we held between us. The book itself was soon to be cast aside.
“The Chanoinesse was unsparing in her comments. She disliked her nephew, and was jealous of my affection for him. She did not understand it. She was not cognisant of the political secret which bound us together, and, judging from externals, thought I was losing myself from pure benevolence.
“‘My dearest Santa,’ she would say to me, ‘I tell you, beware of Rupert! I know him; he will throw you aside when he has done with you.’
“‘No, dear aunt, he has a true regard and affection for me; besides, what of him? Let him leave me, Ida—I ask for no more.’
“‘True regard! true fiddlestick! He is not capable of friendship for a woman. He may deceive himself in thinking he has a friendship for a woman he loves, but he has no feeling whatever for a woman he cannot love; and you, Santa, are a woman he never could love—you are antipathetic to him, I can see.’
“I laughed.
“‘Personally, perhaps; but I am quite sure we have strong mental sympathies, and what does it signify? I have no wish but to be his friend. Were it not for Ida, to whom as a woman I can be of more service than if I were a man, I should wish to be a man for Rupert’s sake, I could help him more. I would rather be his brother than his sister, for instance. But, after all, it matters little, as affection like ours is sexless.’
“‘Dear Santa, I feel sure that you are sexless in his eyes from his want of personal attraction towards you, and from the very uses to which he puts you, but I am not so sure seeing the strong affection for him which is impressed in all you do and say, that he conceives that he is sexless in yours.’
“I started up.
“‘You are entirely, absolutely wrong. Under ordinary circumstances such a mistake might be made—men are vain and women are imprudent—but I cannot believe that any man of Rupert’s experience would fall into such an error. If not error, it would be the excess of baseness. Listen to me,’ I said, and I held both her hands and looked into her eyes, and made her look into mine; ‘I do not pretend to much heart experience, my life has been a peculiar one, but I am quite sure that in love, properly so called, there is a timidity, a consciousness, a coquetry, as different as