Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1884-05-27
here again was the old, old story of sub
stanceand shadow!

|
Oh, wish I cared for fine scholarship!
But don't; can't; it's no use to pretend
| do; and what is worse, do not think ]
ever did. Is not this the saddest thing OF
all ? to wake up and find oneself sham?
Agnes, whatever may be your scorn for
me, it cannot exceed my own.
AL through ti..g.t wretched evening the
miserable farce went on. Mr.. Broke de-
voted himself to Sybil Jupiter (what can
such man find to say to such girl, I
wonder?) and Mr.. Talbot establishing him
self at my side, displayed an appreciation of
my society that would have driven me mad
with delight only a few short months ago.
But what is Mr.. Talbot to me? Nothing
absolutely nothing; a polite nonentity,
| having no connection with the shadowy
creation of my own brain before which |
was once pleas sed to fall down and worship.
l have no doubt that he is admirable, all,
more than we used to think him; but he is
nothing to me. Perhaps I have grown
coarser, have fallen away from my own
ideals; perhaps l never was so superfine as
| once believed. "Coarse, 'sbrutal,' are
not those the words I have frequently
thought fit to make use of with regard to a
certain person?
ought to be whipped for a miserable
prig but indeed my punishment is a hard
er one than whipping.
Oh, Agnes, why did 1 not see it before ?
| Why did you not see it? You must have
understood! But il is too late, too late; 1
have thrown away the most precious trea-
sure woman can have, and there is no
getting it back again. If only he would
have little pity on me, only shake hands
and be friendsi held out my hand in the
hall tonight on my way to the door, but
he would not see it, and gave me a deep
bow, with his eyes very wide open.
Do you remember poor Guinevere's
words?
That passionless perfection. my good lord!
want life and color, which found
In Lancelot.
Oh, Lancelot, Lancelot, you are very
cruel! Excuse these egotistio outpourings.
My heart is very full.
Your miserable and ashamed NORA.
"
PEMBRIDeE SQUARE, April 9th.
DEAR AGNES: Accept my very warmest
congratulationg on your engagementto to Mr..
Dalrymple and my best wishes for that
joint edition of Plato, which / fully expect
will set the whole world of learning on fire.
You cannot, dear, imagine how refreshing
it is to hear Of happy people; to reflect that
after all there is sometimes such a thing as
happiness in the world. l have not written
before, because I have not had the heart;
have been very miserable. After that
unhappy evening at the Cunliffe's things
got worse and worse. I was continually
meeting Mr.. Broke, and each time we met
only served to confirm to me the discovery
| had made too late. There may be better
men personally / don't think there are),
but Stephen Broke is the one man in the
world for me. Is love, blindness or in
creased vision, | wonder.
AS for Mr. Broke, I think he has alto
gether ceased to regret the answer | gave
him that night in the conservatory. can
not help believing that he was sorry-yes,
real sorry-at first, and that his very pro-
nounced delight in the society of Sybil
Jupiter was not quite genuine. It is gen.
uine now. He is always with her, is al
ways to be found where she goes.
Is constancy confined to the du peo-
pie, to the Dobbins of this great Vanity
Fair, [ wonder? But who am | to talk of
constancy?
AS chance would have it, 1 saw great
deal of Reginald Talbot during his stay in
London. The Fates, who are vulgar
enough to enjoy practical joke, decreed
that |, Of whose presence he had formerly
seemed supremely unconscious, should
suddenly become to him an object Of some
interest.
He snot in our set, but saw him con-
tinually in Cavendish Square (NIrs. Gun
life suddenly acquired sort Of grande
passion for meD and when the Cunliffes
went to Tonquay last month they invited
me to accompany them. Reginald Talbot,
who ic and fax
ite, was also one of the party.
Oh, Agnes, we have often and often
talked about the irony of fate, but never
before had l realized it to its full extent.
Here was I walking with, talking with,
passing my whole days in the society of
person, to eaten a glimpse of whose unres-
ponsive face | would once have walked
from China to Peru. And now that he was
here, continually beside me-now that his
face was by no means unresponsive-I
could have seen him depart forever without
pang; nay, I could have hailed his de-
parture with delight, if it had been follow
ed by the arrival of another person, of whom
at one time I was won't, forsooth, to look
down, whom was fond ofreproaching with
want of superfineness. And yet, even
viewed dispassionately, Mr.. Talbot is un-
doubtedly pleasant and worthy person.
He is cultivated, generous, kindly, intelli
gent; nevertheless, Twas always conscious
of a certain want in him.
Perhaps it is that his atmosphere is too
rarefed for me, but do you know that he
| struck me at times as crude, colorless, a
little cramped and academic? He is alto
gether too much in ones own notion, as
you would phrase it. A woman likes to be
deferred to, to have her ideas treated res
pectfully; but on the other hand she likes
to be taken possession of, regulated, mag
niicently and tenderly scorned, even, at
times. We have been slaves so long that
we rather enjoy, metaphorically speaking,
the application Of little brute force on the
part of our lords and masters.
Don't faint, Agnes! and pray have little
mercy on Mr.. Dalrymple. When there is
a dispute about the Plato commentaries,
whose version will be adopted? Do you not
perceive that am growing very sportive-
quite "gamesome, Orlando put it?
But if laugh at any mortal thing.
'Tis that may not weep.
Ha, ha! wax Byronic! Take my merri-
ment for what it is worth, and let me pro-
ceed.
Cunliffes and thesvery real pleasure l had
III tuC oOOlOoy VI ldlOOO3 Weeo wy
miserable down at Torquay. l used to
read ''Felise'' almost every night, and cry
over it about as often, especially over one
verse:
Let this be said between us here:
One love grows green when one turns gray;
This year knows nothing of last year;
Tomorrow has no more to say
To yesterday.
Is it not terrible poem? and yet l
hink it is the story of many women's
ives.
The day before 1 got home, sad and
surprising event happened. 1 received a
letter from Mr.. Talbot asking me to be his
wife, I cannot tell you how it distressed
and disturbed me. Perhaps my first feel
ing was one Of profound irritation at the
sorry trick the Fates had been playing me.
Last year, if it were only last yearl |
thought and re-read the letter, which was
indeed a model of fine feeling and delicate
taste Was l to send away love for sec
ond time ?-the love of good and upright
man? Who knows how ones feelings may