Science, here and
there illumining the gloom of destiny with its poor electric lights,
cries out that they are guiding stars. But they are no stars, and they
will flare away. Let us pray for darkness, more darkness, lest, to our
bewildered sight, they do but serve to show that which shall murder
Hope.
So think Geoffrey and his kin, and in their unexpressed dismay, turn,
seeking refuge from their physical and spiritual loneliness, but for the
most part finding none. Nature, still strong in them, points to the dear
fellowship of woman, and they make the venture to find a mate, not
a companion. But as it chanced in Geoffrey's case he did find such a
companion in Beatrice, after he had, by marriage, built up an impassable
wall between them.
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.
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