_Tuesday._--Another day. I begin to see that I have been called to make every sacrifice--marriage, ambition, happiness, all must be abandoned: abandoned while I live, not after I have made myself, by years of self-discipline, indifferent to such considerations.... But for its piety, the _Imitation_ is, I think, the most pessimistic book in the world. The _Exercises_ of St. Ignatius (perhaps because he was a saint) produce quite an opposite effect upon me; they exhort us to hope, action, courage. They make one a citizen of both worlds. Merely to read him is a campaign in the open air against a worthy foe. I defy any man to go through the _Exercises_ with his whole heart, and even whine again. I have resolved to write willingly no more, to speak willingly no more, on the subject of my marriage. That page is turned for ever: there shall be no glancing back. Moods inevitably must come; spasms of despair are as little tractable as spasms of physical pain. But I can at least keep silent about their true cause. The first step toward the cure of egoism is to lock away one's Journal. I shall add no more to this till I have mastered my present state. And I wonder what that mastery will mean? Are some victories better lost? The Journal ends abruptly at this point, and no more was added that year. His letter to Lord Wight has been preserved because his lordship sent it to Pensée in some anger, begging her to explain such callousness. Pensée, being a woman, brought a gentler understanding to the inquiry. "Don't you see," she said, "that his heart is broken?" "I see," returned his lordship drily, "he is a born R. C. ecclesiastic. Religious instinct is the ruling passion of Orange. That poor young woman--with whom he is madly in love--was merely an accident of his career. She has affected his character--yes. I suppose Cardinal Manning's wife had her influence in her day. But Robert will work better than ever after this. Whereas look at me, my dear. When I lost Sybil, I was completely done for. I tried to set up for myself, but I couldn't. I hope I am a Christian; God forbid that I should quarrel with His will. Yet I cannot think I am a better man for my poor darling's death. Don't talk to me. Don't say anything." The letter in question ran as follows:-- ALMOUTH HOUSE. MY DEAR LORD WIGHT,--