u have known the _un_real, sham
me. Every one of my friends will be surprised. I am not surprised.
And oh! the relief to be quite, quite natural and straightforward
at last. Nothing to pretend, nothing to hide. I wish you had never
known me. Your ideals are so noble, and you depended on me to
realise a few of them. I think of the plans we made, the hopes we
formed. Alas! they were not for me. I am going forward into the
darkness. I don't see one ray of light. Yet I haven't one misgiving
or the least fear, because I have the unalterable conviction that I
am fulfilling my true destiny--whatever it may be, good or evil.

All will agree that you are well rid of me. This is my consolation.
You have been kind, considerate, affectionate, thoughtful always.
And I have failed you.

Forget me, and never judge other women by me. I have been
exceptionally foolish.

Your wretched friend,

AGNES CARILLON.

His lordship's emotion on reading this letter was one of relief for
himself--but pity and terror for the girl. He was sincerely fond of
Agnes, and the defiant misery of her words filled him with forebodings.
But the sense of his own restored liberty soon dominated every other
feeling; and his anxiety about Miss Carillon's future found complete
assuagement in the thought that character, under suffering, came out
with an energy and intensity which made, indisputably, for progress.

When the news, after twenty-four hours, became known, Agnes's wish to
place herself in the wrong, beyond sympathy, or hope of pardon, was
freely gratified. No criticism seemed too harsh for her conduct. No
voice was lifted in mitigation of her offence. Rennes was excused,
because he was an artist, erratic and passionate, and she was
unfortunately beautiful. The poor old Bishop, however, rallied under the
shock, preached more vigorously than ever, and showed a proud
countenance to his daughter's adversaries. When he was able to announce
to his friends--after a painful fortnight of suspense--that the young
couple had travelled to Rome with Mrs. Rennes, and been married at the
English Embassy there, he gave way to a little illness and indulged his
grief. One could surrender to legalised folly; one could name it. But
sin and scandal could only be faced by an implacable reserve. "I may die
of dismay," said he to his wife, "but I wi