For though Dick had loved her for some months, love not converted into action, becomes indolent and unbelieving. So he had misgivings he could not control and amid the distractions of London, his love, instead of giving a new meaning to his life, had infected him rather with a sense of dreamland. But in this hour, true honest love illumined life, he saw things as they were, he really fell in love and that is a wonderful experience, a deep, elemental thing, beyond all reasoning with. In this experience he had found at last the Key to Life, and he understood in a moment, as it were, that this Key is in the Heart, and not in the Brain. He had been very wise and prudent about Faith and one smile from her had shattered all his reasoning, and the love-light now in his eyes, and shining in his face, was heart-work and not brain work. For love is a state of the soul; anger, grief and other passions can change their mental states; but love? No! Love absorbs the whole man, and if not satisfied, causes a state of great suffering. So in that hour Love was Destiny and fashioned his life beyond the power of any other passion to change.
In the meantime Faith brought in tea and some fresh bread and butter, and a dish of broiled trout. “Mr. Braithwaite was trout fishing among the fells to-day,” she said, “and as he came home, he left half a dozen for father. He is one of the Chapel Trustees and very fond of line fishing. Sometimes father goes with him. You know,” she added with a smile, “fishing is apostolical. Even a Methodist preacher may fish.”
For a short time they talked of the reel and line, and its caprices, but conversation quickly drifted to the condition of the country and of Annis particularly, and in this conversation an hour drifted speedily away. Then Faith rose and brought in a bowl of hot water, washed the china and silver and put them away in a little corner cupboard.
“That silver is very beautiful,” said Dick.
“Take it in your hand, Mr. Annis, and read what is engraved on the tea pot.” So Dick took it in his hand and read that the whole service had been given by the Wesleyans of Thirsk to Reverend Mr. Foster, as a proof of their gratitude to him as their spiritual teacher and comforter. Then Dick noticed the china and said his mother had a set exactly like it and Mr. Foster answered – “I think, Mr. Annis, every family in England has one, rich and poor. Whoever hit upon this plain white china, with its broad gold band round all edges, hit on something that fitted the English taste universally. It will be a wedding gift, and a standard tea set, for many generations yet; unless it deteriorates in style and quality – but I must not forget that I am due at Hartley’s at seven o’clock, so I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Annis.”
“May I ask your permission to remain with Miss Foster until your return, sir? I have a great deal to tell her about Katherine and many messages from my sister to deliver.”
For a moment Mr. Foster hesitated, then he answered frankly, “I will be glad if you stay with Faith until I return.” Then Faith helped him on with his top coat and gave him his hat and gloves and walking stick and both Dick and Faith stood at the open door, and watched him go down the street a little way. But this was Dick’s opportunity and he would not lose it.
“Come into the parlor, dear, dear Faith! I have something to tell you, something I must tell you!” And all he said in the parlor was something he had never dared to say before, except in dreams.
Faith knew what he wished to say. He had wooed her silently for months, but she had not suffered him to pass beyond the horizon of her thoughts. Yet she knew well, that though they were in many things dissimilar as two notes of music, they were made for each other. She told herself that he knew this fact as well as she did and that at the appointed hour he would come to her. Until that hour she would not provoke Destiny by her impatience. A change so great for her would doubtless involve other changes and perhaps their incidentals were not yet ready. So she never doubted but that Dick would tell her he loved her, as soon as he thought the right hour had come.
And now the hour had come, and Dick did tell her how he loved her with a passionate eloquence that astonished himself. She did not try to resist its influence. It was to her heart all that cold water would be to parching thirst; it was the coming together of two strong, but different temperaments, and from the contact the flashing forth of love like fire. His words went to her head like wine, her eyes grew soft, tender, luminous, her form was half mystical, half sensuous. Dick was creating a new world for them, all their own. Though her eyes lifted but an instant, her soul sought his soul, gradually they leaned closer to each other in visible sweetness and affection and then it was no effort, but a supreme joy, to ask her to be his wife, to love and counsel and guide him, as his mother had loved and guided his father; and in the sweet, trembling patois of love, she gave him the promise that taught him what real happiness means. And her warm, sweet kisses sealed it. He felt they did so and was rapturously happy. Is there anything more to be said on this subject? No, the words are not yet invented which could continue it. Yet Faith wrote in her Diary that night – “To-day I was born into the world of Love. That is the world God loves best.”
CHAPTER VIII – LOVE’S TENDER PHANTASY
“No mortal thing can bear so high a price,
But that with mortal thing it may be bought;
No pearls, no gold, no gems, no corn, no spice,
No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price.
Divine is Love and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing but itself.”
A MAN in love sees miracles, as well as expects them. Outsiders are apt to think him an absurd creature, he himself knows that he is seeking the only love that can complete and crown his life. Dick was quite sure of his own wisdom. Whenever he thought of Faith, of her innocence, her high hopes, her pure eyes, and flowerlike beauty, he felt that his feet were on a rock and his soul went after her and everything was changed in his life.
It was not until great London was on his horizon, that any fear touched his naturally high spirit. His father’s good will, he was sure, could be relied on. He himself had made what his father called “a varry inconsiderate marriage,” but it had proved to be both a very wise and a very happy union, so Dick expected his father would understand and sympathize with his love for Faith Foster.
About the women of his family he felt more uncertain, his mother and sister and aunt would doubtless be harder to please. Yet they must see that Faith was everyway exceptional. Was she not the very flower and pearl of womanhood? He could not understand how they could find any fault with his wonderfully fortunate choice. Yet he kindly considered the small frailties of the ordinary woman and made some allowances for their jealousies and for the other interferences likely to spring from family and social conditions.
But Dick was no coward and he was determined to speak of his engagement to Faith as soon as he had rid his mind of the business which had sent him to Annis. Nor had he any love-lorn looks or attitudes; he appeared to be an exceedingly happy man, when he opened the parlor door of his father’s apartments in the Clarendon. Breakfast was on the table and the squire and his wife were calmly enjoying it. They cried out joyfully when they saw him. The squire hastily stood up with outstretched hands, while Dick’s mother cried out, “O Dick! Dick! how good it is to see thee!”
Dick was soon seated between them and as he ate he told the news he had brought from the home village. It was all interesting and important to them – from the change in its politics – which Dick said had become nearly Radical – to the death of Jonathan Hartley’s mother, who had been for many years a great favorite of Mistress Annis.
Dick was a little astonished to find that his father pooh-pooh’d Boocock’s design of building a mill in Annis. “He can’t build ef he can’t get land and water,” he answered with a scornful laugh; “and Antony Annis will not let him hev either. He is just another of those once decent weavers, who hev been turned into arrant fools by making brass too easy and too quick. I hev heard them talk. They are allays going to build another mill somewhere, they are going to mak’ a bid for all Yorkshire and mebbe tak’ Lancashire into their plans. Boocock does not trouble me. And if Squire Annis puts him in Cold Shoulder Lane, there will not be a man in t’ neighborhood poor and mean enough to even touch his cap to him. This is all I hev to say about Boocock at the present time and I don’t want him mentioned again. Mind that!”
“I think, then, father, that you will have to get rid of Jonathan Hartley.”
“Rid of Jonathan! Whativer is tha talking about? I could spare him as little as my right hand.”
“Jonathan told me to tell you that you had better build a mill yourself, than let Boocock, or some other stranger, in among Annis folk. He said the world was stepping onward and that we had better step with the world, than be dragged behind it. He said that was his feeling.”
“Well, he hes a right to his feeling, but he need not send it to me. Let him go. I see how it is. I am getting a bit older than I was and men that are younger five or ten years are deserting me. They fear to be seen with an old fogy, like Squire Annis. God help me, but – I’m not downed yet. If they can do without me, I can jolly well do without them.
Why-a!
Thy mother is worth iverybody else to me and she’ll love and cherish me if I add fifty years more to my present fifty-five.”
“I want no other love, Antony, than yours. It is good enough for life – and thereafter.”
“Dear, dear Annie! And don’t fear! When I am sure it is time to move, I’ll move. I’ll outstrip them all yet. By George, I’ll keep them panting after me! How is it, Dick? Wilt thou stand with thy father? If so, put thy hand in thy father’s and we will beat them all at their awn game” – and Dick put his hand in his father’s hand and answered, “I am your loving and obedient son. Your will is my pleasure, sir.”
“Good, dear lad! Then we two will do as we want to do, we’ll do it in our awn time, and in our awn way, and we hev sense enough, between us, to tak’ our awn advice, whativer it be. For first of all, we’ll do whativer is best for the village, and then for oursens, without anybody’s advice but our awn. Just as soon as The Bill is off my mind we will hev a talk on this subject. Annis Hall and Annis land and water is our property – mine and thine – and we will do whativer is right, both to the land and oursens.”
And Dick’s loving face, and the little sympathizing nod of his head, was all the squire needed. Then he stood up, lifting himself to his full height, and added, “Boocock and his mill will have to wait on my say-so, and I haven’t room in my mind at present to consider him; so we will say no more on that subject, until he comes and asks me for the land and water he wants. What is tha going to do with thysen now?”
“That depends upon your wish, father. Are you going to – The House?”
“The House! Hes tha forgotten that the English Government must hev its usual Easter recreation whativer comes or goes? I told thee – I told thee in my first letter to Annis, that parliament hed given themsens three weeks’ holiday. They feel a good bit tired. The Bill hed them all worn out.”
“I remember! I had forgotten The Bill!”
“Whativer hes tha been thinking of to forget that?”
“Where then are you going to-day, father?”
“I doan’t just know yet, Dick, but – ”
“Well, I know where I am going,” said Mistress Annis. “I have an engagement with Jane and Katherine at eleven and I shall have to hurry if I am to keep it.”
“Somewhere to go, or something to do. Which is it, Annie?”
“It is both, Antony. We are going to Exeter Hall, to a very aristocratic meeting, to make plans for the uplifting of the working man. Lord Brougham is to be chairman. He says very few can read and hardly any write their names. Shocking! Lord Brougham says we ought to be ashamed of such a condition and do something immediately to alter it.”
“Brougham does not know what he is talking about. He thinks a man’s salvation is in a spelling book and an inkhorn. There is going to be a deal of trouble made by fools, who want to uplift the world, before the world is ready to be uplifted. They can’t uplift starving men. It is bread, not books, they want; and I hev allays seen that when a man gets bare enough bread to keep body and soul together, the soul, or the mind, gets the worst of it.”
“I cannot help that,” said Mistress Annis. “Lord Brougham will prove to us, that body and mind must be equally cared for or the man is not developed.”
“Well, then, run away to thy developing work. It is a new kind of job for thee; and I doan’t think it will suit thee – not a bit of it. I would go with thee but developing working men is a step or two out of my way. And I’ll tell thee something, the working men – and women, too – will develop theirsens if we only give them the time and the means, and the brass to do it. But go thy ways and if thou art any wiser after Brougham’s talk I’ll be glad to know what he said.”
“I shall stay and dine with Jane and thou hed better join us. We may go to the opera afterwards.”
“Nay, then, I’ll not join thee. I wouldn’t go to another opera for anything – not even for the great pleasure of thy company. If I hev to listen to folk singing, I want them to sing in the English language. It is good enough, and far too good, for any of the rubbishy words I iver heard in any opera. What time shall I come to Jane’s for thee?”
“About eleven o’clock, or soon after.”
“That’s a nice time for a respectable squire’s wife to be driving about London streets. I wish I hed thee safe at Annis Hall.”
With a laugh Annie closed the door and hurried away and Dick turned to his father.
“I want to talk with you, sir,” he said, “on a subject which I want your help and sympathy in, before I name it to anyone else. Suppose we sit still here. The room is quiet and comfortable and we are not likely to be disturbed.”
“Why then, Dick! Hes tha got a new sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir, and she is the dearest and loneliest woman that ever lived. I want you to stand by me in any opposition likely to rise.”
“What is her name? Who is she?” asked the squire not very cordially.
“Her name is Faith Foster. You know her, father?”
“Yes, I know her. She is a good beautiful girl.”
“I felt sure you would say that, sir. You make me very happy.”
“A man cannot lie about any woman. Faith Foster is good and beautiful.”
“And she has promised to be my wife. Father, I am so happy! So happy! And your satisfaction with Faith doubles my pleasure. I have been in love with her for nearly a year but I was afraid to lose all by asking all; and I never found courage or opportunity to speak before this to her.”
“That is all buff and bounce. Thou can drop the word ‘courage,’ and opportunity will do for a reason. I niver knew Dick Annis to be afraid of a girl but if thou art really afraid of this girl – let her go. It is the life of a dog to live with a woman that you fear.”
“Father, you have seen Faith often. Do you fear her in the way your words seem to imply?”
“Me! Does tha think I fear any woman? What’s up with thee to ask such a question as that?”
“I thought from your kind manner with Faith and your admiring words both to her and about her that you would have congratulated me on my success in winning her love.”
“I doan’t know as thou deserves much congratulation on that score. I think it is mebbe, to me mysen, and to thy mother thou art mainly indebted for what success there is in winning Miss Foster’s favor. We gave thee thy handsome face and fine form, thy bright smile and that coaxing way thou hes – a way that would win any lass thou choose to favor – it is just the awful way young men hev, of choosing the wrong time to marry even if they happen to choose the right woman.”
“Was that your way, father?”
“Ay, was it! I chose the right time, but the girl was wrong enough in some ways.”
“My mother wrong! Oh, no, father!”
“My father thought she was not rich enough for me. He was a good bit disappointed by my choice but I knew what I was doing.”
“Father, I also know what I am doing. I suppose you object to Faith’s want of fortune.”
“Mebbe I do, and I wouldn’t be to blame if I did, but as it happens I think a man is better without his wife’s money. A wife’s money is a quarrelsome bit of either land or gold.”
“I consider Faith’s goodness a fortune far beyond any amount of either gold or land.”
“Doan’t thee say anything against either land or gold. When thou hes lived as long as I hev thou wilt know better than do that.”
“Wisdom is better than riches. I have heard you say that often.”
“It was in Solomon’s time. I doan’t know that it is in Victoria’s. The wise men of this day would be a deal wiser if they hed a bit of gold to carry out all the machines and railroads and canals they are planning; and what would the final outcome be, if they hed it? Money, money, and still more money. This last year, Dick, I hev got some new light both on poverty and riches and I have seen one thing plainly, it is that money is a varry good, respectable thing, and a thing that goes well with lovemaking; but poverty is the least romantic of all misfortunes. A man may hide, or cure, or forget any other kind of trouble, but, my lad, there is no Sanctuary for Poverty.”
“All you say is right, father, but if Faith’s want of fortune is no great objection, is there any other reason why I should not marry her? We might as well speak plainly now, as afterwards.”
“That is my way. I hate any backstair work, especially about marrying. Well, then, one thing is that Faith’s people are all Chapel folk. The Squire of Annis is a landed gentleman of England, and the men who own England’s land hev an obligation to worship in England’s Church.”
“You know, father, that wives have a duty laid on them to make their husbands’ church their church. Faith will worship where I worship and that is in Annis Parish Church.”
“What does tha know of Faith’s father and mother?”
“Her grandfather was a joiner and carpenter and a first class workman. He died of a fever just before the birth of Faith’s mother. Her grandmother was a fine lace maker, and supported herself and her child by making lace for eight years. Then she died and the girl, having no kindred and no friends willing to care for her, was taken to the Poor House.”
“Oh, Dick! Dick! that is bad – very bad indeed!”
“Listen, father. At the Poor House Sunday school she learned to read, and later was taught how to spin, and weave, and to sew and knit. She was a silent child, but had fine health and a wonderfully ambitious nature. At eleven years of age she took her living into her own hands. She went into a woolen mill and made enough to pay her way in the family of Samuel Broadbent, whose sons now own the great Broadbent mill with its six hundred power-looms. When she was fifteen she could manage two looms, and was earning more than a pound a week. Every shilling nearly of this money went for books. She bought, she borrowed, she read every volume she could reach; and in the meantime attended the Bradford Night School of the Methodist Church. At seventeen years of age she was a very good scholar and had such a remarkable knowledge of current literature and authors that she was made the second clerk in the Public Library. Soon after, she joined the Methodist Church, and her abilities were quickly recognized by the Preacher, and she finally went to live with his family, teaching his boys and girls, and being taught and protected by their mother. One day Mr. Foster came as the second preacher in that circuit and he fell in love with her and they married. Faith is their child, and she has inherited not only her mother’s beauty and intellect, but her father’s fervent piety and humanity. Since her mother’s death she has been her father’s companion and helped in all his good works, as you know.”
“Yes, I know – hes her mother been long dead?
“About six years. She left to the young girls who have to work for their living several valuable text-books to assist them in educating themselves, a very highly prized volume of religious experiences and a still more popular book of exquisite poems. Is there anything in this record to be called objectionable or not honorable?”
“
Ask thy mother
that question, Dick.”
“Nay, father, I want your help and sympathy. I expect nothing favorable from mother. You must stand by me in this strait. If you accept Faith my mother will accept her. Show her the way. Do, father! Always you have been right-hearted with me. You have been through this hard trial yourself, father. You know what it is.”
“To be sure I do; and I managed it in a way that thou must not think of, or I will niver forgive thee. I knew my father and mother would neither be to coax nor to reason with, and just got quietly wedded and went off to France with my bride. I didn’t want any browbeating from my father and I niver could hev borne my mother’s scorn and silence, so I thought it best to come to some sort of terms with a few hundred miles between us – but mind what I say, Dick! I was niver again happy with them. They felt that I hed not trusted their love and they niver more trusted my love. There was a gulf between us that no love could bridge. Father died with a hurt feeling in his heart. Mother left my house and went back to her awn home as soon as he was buried. All that thy mother could do niver won her more than mere tolerance. Now, Dick, my dear lad, I hev raked up this old grief of mine for thy sake. If tha can win thy mother’s promise to accept Faith as a daughter, and the future mistress of Annis Hall, I’ll put no stone in thy way. Hes tha said anything on this subject to Mr. Foster? If so, what answer did he give thee?”
“He said the marriage would be a great pleasure to him if you and mother were equally pleased; but not otherwise.”
“That was right, it was just what I expected from him.”
“But, father, until our engagement was fully recognized by you and mother, he forbid us to meet, or even to write to each other. I can’t bear that. I really can not.”
“Well, I doan’t believe Faith will help thee to break such a command. Not her! She will keep ivery letter of it.”
“Then I shall die. I could not endure such cruelty! I will – I will – ”
“Whativer thou shall, could, or will, do try and not make a fool of thysen.
Drat it, man!
Let me see thee in this thy first trial
right-side-out
. Furthermore, I’ll not hev thee going about Annis village with that look on thy face as if ivery thing was on the perish. There isn’t a man there, who wouldn’t know the meaning of it and they would wink at one another and say ‘poor beggar! it’s the Methody preacher’s little lass!’ There it is! and thou knows it, as well as I do.”
“Let them mock if they want to. I’ll thrash every man that names her.”
“Be quiet! I’ll hev none of thy tempers, so just bid thy Yorkshire devil to get behind thee. I hev made thee a promise and I’ll keep it, if tha does thy part fairly.”
“What is my part?”
“It is to win over thy mother.”
“You, sir, have far more influence over mother than I have. If I cannot win mother, will you try, sir?”
“No, I will not. Now, Dick, doan’t let me see thee wilt in thy first fight. Pluck up courage and win or fail with a high heart. And if tha should fail, just take the knockdown with a smile, and say,
“If she is not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be!
That was the young men’s song in my youth. Now we will drop the subject and what dost tha say to a ride in the Park?”
“All right, sir.”
The ride was not much to speak of. One man was too happy, and the other was too unhappy and eventually the squire put a stop to it. “Dick,” he said, “tha hed better go to thy room at The Yorkshire Club and sleep thysen into a more respectable temper.” And Dick answered, “Thank you, sir. I will take your advice” – and so raising his hand to his hat he rapidly disappeared.
“Poor lad!” muttered his father; “he hes some hard days before him but it would niver do to give him what he wants and there is no ither way to put things right” – and with this reflection the squire’s good spirits fell even below his son’s melancholy. Then he resolved to go back to the Clarendon. “Annie may come back there to dress before her dinner and opera,” he reflected – “but if she does I’ll not tell her a word of Dick’s trouble. No, indeed! Dick must carry his awn bad news. I hev often told her unpleasant things and usually I got the brunt o’ them mysen. So if Annie comes home to dress – and she does do so varry often lately – I’ll not mention Dick’s affair to her. I hev noticed that she dresses hersen varry smart now and, by George, it suits her well! In her way she looks as handsome as either of her daughters. I did not quite refuse to dine at Jane’s, I think she will come to the Clarendon to dress and to beg me to go with her and I might as well go – here she comes! I know her step, bless her!”
When Dick left his father he went to his sister’s residence. He knew that Jane and his mother were at the lecture but he did not think that Katherine would be with them and he felt sure of Katherine’s sympathy. He was told that she had just gone to Madam Temple’s and he at once followed her there and found her writing a letter and quite alone.
“Kitty! Kitty!” he cried in a lachrymose tone. “I am in great trouble.”
“Whatever is wrong, Dick? Are you wanting money?”
“I am not thinking or caring anything about money. I want Faith and her father will not let me see her or write to her unless father and mother are ready to welcome her as a daughter. They ought to do so and father is not very unwilling; but I know mother will make a stir about it and father will not move in the matter for me.”
“Move?”
“Yes, I want him to go to mother and make her do the kind and the right thing and he will not do it for me, though he knows that mother always gives in to what he thinks best.”
“She keeps her own side, Dick, and goes as far as she can, but it is seldom she gets far enough without father’s consent. Father always keeps the decisive word for himself.”
“That is what I say. Then father could – if he would – say the decisive word and so make mother agree to my marriage with Faith.”
“Well you see, Dick, mother is father’s love affair and why should he have a dispute with his wife to make you and your intended wife comfortable and happy? Mother has always been in favor of Harry Bradley and she does not prevent us seeing or writing each other, when it is possible, but she will not hear of our engagement being made public, because it would hurt father’s feelings and she is half-right anyway. A wife ought to regard her husband’s feelings. You would expect that, if you were married.”
“Oh, Kitty, I am so miserable. Will you sound mother’s feelings about Faith for me? Then I would have a better idea how to approach her on the subject.”
“Certainly, I will.”
“How soon?”
“To-morrow, if possible.”
“Thank you, dearie! I love Faith so truly that I have forgotten all the other women I ever knew. Their very names tire me now. I wonder at myself for ever thinking them at all pretty. I could hardly be civil to any of them if we met. I shall never care for any woman again, if I miss Faith.”
“You know, Dick, that you must marry someone. The family must be kept up. Is the trouble Faith’s lack of money?”
“No. It is her father and mother.”
“Her father is a scholar and fine preacher.”
“Yes, but her mother was a working girl, really a mill hand,” and then Dick told the story of Faith’s mother with enthusiasm. Kitty listened with interest, but answered, “I do not see what you are going to do, Dick. Not only mother, but Jane will storm at the degradation you intend to inflict upon the house of Annis.”
“There are two things I can do. I will marry Faith, and be happier than words can tell; or I will leave England forever.”
“Dick, you never can do that. Everything good forbids it – and there. Jane’s carriage is coming.”
“Then good-by. When can I see you tomorrow?”
“In the afternoon, perhaps. I may speak to mother before three o’clock.”
Then Dick went away and a servant entered with a letter. It was from Lady Jane, bidding Katherine return home immediately or she would not be dressed in time for dinner. On her way home she passed Dick walking slowly with his head cast down and carrying himself in a very dejected manner. Katherine stopped the carriage and offered to give him a lift as far as his club.
“No, thank you, Kitty,” he answered. “You may interview mother for me if you like. I was coming to a resolution to take the bull by the horns, or at least in some manner find a way that is satisfactory in the meantime.”
“That is right. There is nothing like patient watching and waiting. Every ball finally comes to the hand held out for it.”
Then with a nod and a half-smile, Dick lifted his hat and went forward. While he was in the act of speaking to Katherine an illuminating thought had flashed through his consciousness and he walked with a purposeful stride towards his club. Immediately he sat down and began to write a letter, and the rapid scratching of the goose quill on the fine glazed paper indicated there was no lack of feeling in what he was writing. The firm, strong, small letters, the wide open long letters, the rapid fluency and haste of the tell-tale quill, all indicated great emotion, and it was without hesitation or consideration he boldly signed his name to the following letter: —
To the Rev. John Foster.
Dear Sir:
You have made me the most wretched of men. You have made Faith the most unhappy of women. Faith never wronged you in all her life. Do you imagine she would do for me what she has never before done? I never wronged you by one thought. Can you not trust my word and my honor? I throw myself and Faith on your mercy. You are punishing us before we have done anything worthy of punishment. Is that procedure just and right? If so, it is very unlike you. Let me write to Faith once every week and permit her to answer my letter. I have given you my word; my word is my honor. I cannot break it without your permission, and until you grant my