They sat.

"She's gone," Arundell said, without any preliminaries.

"What?" exclaimed Burton.

"Isabel packed her things and left the family home some few days agoon the twenty-first. We suspected that the two of you had fallen out over some matter and she was taking a holiday to think things over. Yesterday we received this."

He handed Burton a letter.

Trieste, 25th September; 1861

My Dearest Mama and Papa, Richard has broken off our engagement and I feel my life as it was, and as I expected it to be, has ended. I had considered that I was fated to be with him from the veay first instant I laid eyes on him in Boulogne ten years ago. It had been my intention that we should travel to the East together and settle there. I find it almost inconceivable that it should be him who denies me this destiny. How can it be that a future which had seemed to me set in stone can be so altered by another? Is Life so fickle a thing that we are helplessly cast about by whims that are not even our own? I cannot bear it. Mama, Papa, I will be mistress of my own fate! I will be answerable for my own mistakes and I will claim credit for my own triumphs! Though the world may change around me, it will be I who chooses how to meet its challenges and disappointments, and nobody else. The world! I now understand that we inhabit two worlds. There is the wider one that we live upon yet see but a faction of and there is the one which consists of the immediate influences f -om which we take our form. The first expands us; the latter contracts us. Richard was of the second world; from him I gained a sense of my own being, its limits and its character. Now he is gone and I find that I am uncontained. What do I do? Do I retreat f this breach and hide f the infringing outer world? Or do I flow out into it to discover new possibilities and perhaps to take on a new shape for myself? You know your daughter. dear parents! I will not flinch! Richard has made nay long-held vision of the future impossible. Should I therefore abandon it all? NO, I say! NO! I am in Trieste en route to Damascus. I know not what awaits me there. I hardly care. Whatever; I will at least be creating an Isabel Arundell who is defined by her own choices.

I do not know when 1 will be back.

I will write.

You are more dear to me than anything.

With deepest love

Your Isabel

"By heaven, but she's headstrong!" exclaimed Burton, handing the letter back to Henry Arundell.

"Always was!" agreed the older man. "Like her grandmother. By George, man! What made you do it? Leave her, I mean. I thought you loved her!"

"I do, sir. Make no mistake about it; I do. I was given a choice by Lord Palmerston: I could either accept a pitiful consulship on a disease-ridden island or I could serve the country in a capacity which, though hazardous, would offer far more by way of personal fulfillment. In either case, Isabel, had she become my wife, would've been placed in a perilous position. I broke off our engagement to protect her."

Arundell grunted, and said, "And in consequence, she's gone gallivanting off to Arabia on her own where, surely, she'll be at equal risk!"

"No, sir, don't let the popular image deceive you. The Arabs are an honourable race and she'll be in no more danger there than she would be if she were in, say, Brighton. London is a hundred times more dangerous than Damascus."

"Are you sure?"

"I promise you. It's in the British Empire's interest to portray other cultures as barbarous and uncivilised; that way there's less of an outcry when we conquer them and steal their resources. Lies have to be propagated if we are to retain the moral high ground."

Arundell shifted in his seat uncomfortably. To him, such statements sounded traitorous.

"Be that as it may," he grumbled, "I'm not at all happy. I'm concerned for my little girl's welfare and I hold you responsible."

"I cannot help that. The decisions I make are based on what I think is best. The decisions she makes are based on what she feels is best. The deci sions you make, likewise. We all act on what we know, what we see, what we are told, and how we feel. The simple fact of the matter is that not a single one of us operates under identical influences. That, sir, is why the future is always uncertain."

Henry Arundell stood and placed his hat upon his head.

"I am not mollified, sir," he said, somewhat resentfully.

Burton got to his feet. "Neither am I."

Isabel's father nodded and left.

Sir Richard Francis Burton wandered over to the bar and took a shot of whisky. A few minutes later, he put on his topper and his coat and, swinging his cane, walked out of the hotel and along the pavement toward Montagu Place.

The thick fog embraced him.

It was silent.

It was mysterious.

It was timeless.

It makes it seem as if, he thought, my world doesn't really exist.

MEANWHILE, IN THE VICTORIAN AGE…

SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON

After they completed their expedition to Africa's central lake region in, 1859, John Harming Speke returned to London ahead of Richard Francis Burton and claimed credit for the discovery of the source of the Nile. Some weeks later, Burton arrived and their feud commenced. The following year, while Burton toured America, Speke returned to the lakes but failed to collect convincing evidence that his assertion was correct.

In 1861, Burton married Isabel and accepted the consulship of Fernando Po. He did not allow his new wife to accompany him there and they didn't see each other again until December the following year.

Burton's duties on the disease-ridden island ended in 1864. That same year, in September, he was due to debate the Nile question with Speke at a meeting of the Royal Geographical Society in Bath. The day before the scheduled encounter, Speke died from a gunshot wound to his side while out hunting.

His death marked a turning point in Burton's career.

Burton became consul in Brazil, then Damascus, and finally in Trieste, and spent the rest of his life focusing on his writing rather than on exploration.

Queen Victoria did not award him a knighthood until 1886.

He died from heart failure in 1890. Controversy followed, when it became known that Isabel had burned many of his papers, notebooks, and unpublished manuscripts.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

In 1866, Swinburne caused a sensation with the publication of Poems and Ballads I and quickly became the enfant terrible of the Victorian literary scene. Though he was quickly hailed as one of England's premier poets, his alcoholism took a heavy toll on both his health and his career. He also diverted much of his energy into his fascination with birchings and sexual deviancyhe had a condition known to modern medicine as algolagnia, which causes pain to be interpreted as pleasure-and critics generally agree that he never lived up to his potential.

In 1879, when he was forty-two years old, Swinburne suffered a mental and physical breakdown and was removed from the temptations of the London social scene by his friend Theodore Watts. For the remainder of his life, Swinburne lived in relative seclusion with Watts, losing his rebellious streak and settling into comfortable respectability until his death in 1909.

Swinburne's words "-of shame: what is it? Of virtue: we can miss it. Of sin: we can kiss it. And it's no longer sin" form part of his poem "Before Dawn" which appeared in Poems and Ballads, First Series, The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne. 6 vols. London: Chatto, 1904.