And then, suddenly, a memory sprang to life within his soul. He saw again a courtyard set with small round tables and orange trees in green tubs. He heard his own voice putting a question.
“What is the foundation of friendship?” it asked.
“Trust,” came the reply, in the Duchessa’s voice.
Yet, was her friendship strong enough to trust him in such a matter? Strong enough not to misunderstand his silence, his—his oddness in the whole business? And yet, was it not something like a confession of weakness of friendship on his own part, to question the endurance of hers? She had said they were friends. Perhaps the very test of the strength of his own friendship was to lie in his trust of the strength of hers. And, at all events, he could write her some kind of a letter, something that would tell her of his utter inability to see her, even though he might not give the smallest hint of what that inability was. At least he could let her perceive it was by no wish of his own that he stayed away.
Hope revived within his heart. On the one hand there would be temporary banishment, truly. But it would be infinitely preferable to life-long exile. A year, after all, was only a year. To him the moments might, nay would, drag on leaden feet; but to her it would be but as other years, and, ordinarily speaking, they speed by at an astonishing rate. He must look to that assurance for comfort. A little odd smile twisted his lips. What, after all, did a grey year signify to him, as long as its greyness did not touch her. And why should it? The fact of his absence could not possibly bring the same blank to her as it would to him. She might wonder a little, she might even question. But had not she herself spoken of trust?
With the memory of that one word for his encouragement, he took his resolution in both hands and made his decision.
Perhaps, if Antony had attempted to pen his letter to the Duchessa before making his decision, he might have hesitated regarding making it. It was, however, not till the evening before he left town to take up his new life, that he attempted to write to her. Then he discovered the extraordinary difficulty of putting into anything like coherent and convincing words the statement he had to make. He drafted at least a dozen attempts, each, to his mind, more unsatisfactory than the last. Finally he wrote as follows:
“Dear Duchessa:
“Since I said good-bye to you at Plymouth, my affairs have undergone unexpected and quite unforeseen changes. As matters stand at present, I shall be remaining in England for some time. I had hoped to see you when you returned from Scotland, but find, deeply to my regret, that I will be unable to do so, for a considerable time at all events. Need I tell you that this is a great disappointment to me? I had been looking forward to seeing you again, and now fate has taken matters out of my hands. When the time comes that I am able to see you, I will write and let you know; and perhaps, if by then you have not forgotten me, you will allow me to do so.