But the
stern self-control which now he practised in all the ruling of his life
prevented him. No, he had promised never to investigate--and neither in the
letter, nor the spirit, would he break his word, whatever the
suffering. The news, when it came, must be from his beloved one direct.
But oh! the unrest of these hours. Had their hope come true?--and how was
she? The days passed in a gnawing anxiety. He was so restless he could
hardly fix his attention on anything. It required the whole of his will to
keep him taking in the sense of the Parliamentary books which were now his
study. The constant query would raise its head between each page--"What
news of my Queen?--what news of my Queen?"
Each mail as it came in made his heart beat, and often his hand trembled as
he lifted his pile of letters. But no sight of her writing gladdened his
eyes, until he began to be like the sea and its tides, rising twice a day
in a rushing hope with the posts, and sinking again in disappointment.
He grew to look haggard, and his father's heart ached for him in
silence. At length one morning, when he had almost trained himself not to
glance at his correspondence, which came as he was dawdling over an early
breakfast, his eye caught a foreign-looking letter lying on the top.
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