And yet he longed for her society with an intensity that alarmed him.  He had her letters indeed, but what are letters!  One touch of a beloved hand is worth a thousand letters.  In the midst of his great success Geoffrey was wretched at heart, yet it seemed to him that if he once more could have Beatrice at his side, though only as a friend, he would find rest and happiness.

When a man’s heart is thus set upon an object, his reason is soon convinced of its innocence, even of its desirability, and a kindly fate will generally contrive to give him the opportunity of ruin which he so ardently desires.

CHAPTER XIX

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR

And Beatrice—­had she fared better during these long months?  Alas, not at all.  She had gone away from the Bryngelly Station on that autumn morning of farewell sick at heart, and sick at heart she had remained.  Through all the long winter months sorrow and bitterness had been her portion, and now in the happiness of spring, sorrow and bitterness were with her still.  She loved him, she longed for his presence, and it was denied to her.  She could not console herself as can some women, nor did her deep passion wear away; on the contrary, it seemed to grow and gather with every passing week.  Neither did she wish to lose it, she loved too well for that.  It was better to be thus tormented by conscience and by hopelessness than to lose her cause of pain.

One consolation Beatrice had and one only:  she knew that Geoffrey did not forget her.  His letters told her this.  These letters indeed were everything to her—­a woman can get so much more comfort out of a letter than a man.  Next to receiving them she loved to answer them.  She was a good and even a brilliant letter writer, but often and often she would tear up what she had written and begin again.  There was not much news in Bryngelly; it was difficult to make her letters amusing.  Also the farcical nature of the whole proceeding seemed to paralyse her.  It was ridiculous, having so much to say, to be able to say nothing.  Not that Beatrice wished to indite love-letters—­such an idea had never crossed her mind, but rather to write as they had talked.  Yet when she tried to do so the results were not satisfactory to her, the words looked strange on paper—­she could not send them.

In Geoffrey’s meteor-like advance to fame and fortune she took the keenest joy and interest, far more than he did indeed.  Though, like that of most other intelligent creatures, her soul turned with loathing from the dreary fustian of politics, she would religiously search the parliamentary column from beginning to end on the chance of finding his name or the notice of a speech by him.  The law reports also furnished her with a happy hunting-ground in which she often found her game.