"When does Beauclerk return from the North of France?" asked Sara.
"He is coming back with Mr. Orange next Wednesday. I had a letter this morning." Her voice grew husky, and with evident agitation she halted once more.
"You know Beauclerk so well," she said at last, "that I want to ask you something, and you must answer me truly--without the least dread of giving offence--because a great deal may depend on what you tell me. Do you think he seems altogether settled in his mind?"
Sara guessed, from the nature of the question, that the truth in this case would be a relief--not a blow.
"He doesn't seem quite himself--if you understand me," she said, without hesitation.
Agnes caught her arm a little more closely and walked with a lighter step.
"I don't think we love each other sufficiently for marriage," she exclaimed; "his last letter was so affectionate and so full of kindness that it brought tears to my eyes. I saw the effort under it all. We are making a tragic mistake. We drifted into it. We were such good friends, and we felt, I daresay, that it was our duty to love each other. His family were pleased and so were mine. We seem to have pleased everybody except ourselves. Not that I ever expected the joy and stuff, and inward feelings which one reads of. I am too sensible for that. But I wanted to feel _established_--whereas we are both, in reality, rather upset. I am sure of this."
"Our letters are far more satisfactory than our meetings. I know he is fond of me."
"You couldn't doubt that. It is worship."
"I can say, at any rate, that I am so sure of his affection that it gives me no pain--not the least--to miss the--the other quality."
"My dear, you are not in love with him, or you couldn't be so resigned."
"I suppose you are right. I have never told him that I loved him. He has never asked me. Perhaps he took it for granted. As for me, I thought that the respect and esteem I felt would do."
"Not for us. We are different, I know, but we have hearts. We can suffer, we can endure, we can be resigned, we can be everything except uncertain, or luke-warm. Isn't that true?"
"Yes," said Agnes, and she laughed a little. "It isn't my way," she went on, "to talk like this about myself. Yet I can't help seeing that all this keeping silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, is actually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't English. I don't want to be supine. That isn't English either. I want to be just and square all round--in my dealings with others and in my dealings with my own conscience. Papa has always taught us a great deal about individual liberty, and freedom of will. I am beginning to wonder what liberty means."