Unless the Devil is torturing the world, such love as mine for Thee implies, requires, compels an equal love of thine for Me. What a Suzanne this is, who is all mine! When I recall her face as I saw it in Traxelby church, what a wonderful, beautiful Suzanne! But, when I read her letters, I cry again, with threefold gratitude: what a beautiful, wonderful Suzanne! Her pride is as fine as the curl of a rose leaf; but her sweetness, like the rose’s perfume, hovers over it all. Not that Suzanne thinks that she has ever revealed herself in her letters. She believes that she has veiled herself in veils of prudence and reserve. But my eyes have found her out--have found her, more beautiful for her dissembling, like a great bright star hiding in the Milky Way. Suzanne, it is no use hiding any longer. The hour has come for shining out without a cloud between. Do not wait for our meeting. Write to me, just once, without distrust of yourself or of me. I have obeyed, have I not, in all things? Reward me at last. Pour out your heart, even if it be a-brim with fears. When she reads this, prudent Suzanne will be moved to answer that I am taking too long and sudden a leap, and that I am skipping over two or three seemly stages. She will say that she has written nothing which I have the right to answer with a love-letter like this. But this is not an answer to Suzanne’s letter. It is an answer to her flower. RUDDINGTON In a corner of the envelope I found something which his Lordship’s wonderful beautiful Susan has overlooked. It was a petal of a creamy rose. Poor Ruddington! And to think that it is nobody’s fault. _Tuesday at sunrise_. How can I write it? Only because, if I write it not, my brain will turn, my heart will break. I love Ruddington. For days and weeks I have lied to myself, I have lied to this book. With my wits I have parried the truth; but in the heart of my heart, ever since the day I took his portrait in my hand, I have known. As I have looked for his writing by every post, I have known. As I have read his letters, grave or gay, I have known. As I have sat replying, I have known. Every hour of every day, by the sea, in the garden, in this room, I have known. When I saw his portrait facing mine, I knew. When I saw his place empty in the frame, I knew----oh, how hungrily! And when I sat on Sunday, bitter-hearted, under the Bérigny Calvary, I knew. Yet God knows how I have fought it, how I have held it down even out of my own sight. And God knows how, according to my light, I have striven to do my duty by Susan, and by Gibson, and by them all. My poor wits are too weary. They can parry the truth’s bright, cruel thrusts no more.