"I had not thought of that. But 'tis very true. And, trembling and looking
fearfully about her, she put her hand inside the whalebone of her bodice
and drew out letters.
"I thought not these would be seen by any, but buried with me when I die;
but't is impossible you should know me for honest, and because honour
speaks in your face--read these."
I took them, trembling inwardly. She, poor wretch, was newer to her trade,
and was like to faint. I knew the writing.
I will see you tomorrow, if possible. You know it is not above five days
since I saw you, and that I would ten times more, if it were at all
convenient.--Cad bids me tell you that, if you complain of difficult
writing, he will give you enough to complain of.
"Cad"? Then I remembered--"Cadenus and Vanessa." So--_she_ might
call him by a little familiar name, but I, never. I stopt there.
"Madam, have you thus writ to him?"
"Always of late, Madam. With a dash before it, as here you will see the
cause."
She pushed a letter into my hand, eager, as I thought, to convince not
only me but herself of his regard. And thus it read:--
I wish your letters were as difficult (cautious) as mine, for then they
would be of no consequence if dropped by careless messengers. A stroke
thus--signifies all that may be said to Cad at beginning or conclusion.
"So," says I, "a stroke means endearments. Otherwise 't is difficult to
conclude these sentimental letters."
"Madam," she broke out, "it means more than tongue can tell. And since you
still doubt, have the condescension to read this letter of my own which he
returned to me in rebuke. 'Twill show you our terms."
--Cad, you are good beyond expression. I thought that last letter I writ
was obscure and restrained enough. I took pains to write it after your
manner. I am sorry my jealousy should hinder you from writing more love
letters. Pray tell me, did you not wish to come where that road to the
left would have led you? I am now as happy as I can be without seeing--Cad.
I beg you will continue happiness to your own Heskinage.
I read, and was silent--reading this letter by the light of a dead sunset.
I never dared so write. There was that between them that he had never
shared with me, and yet all his old caution, as with me. I thought not,
however, so much of his feelings as of hers, for I think his care for
women is but skin-deep at-best. He was ever willing to take the tribute of
their hearts--nay, of their lives; but should they incommode him, or
trespass across the line he hath marked--this careless liking is changed
to hatred, and he will avenge himself brutally on the weak creatures that
love him.
Who should know this but I--I who have lived beside him and retained his
friendship only because I have in all things submitted to his will--silent
to death? Had I anything to lose to this unfortunate woman? No, I had lost
all many a long year ago. She still had hopes; I, none. Why torture a
wretch so miserable?
She kneeled before me, pale as a corpse. 'Twas the strangest meeting. I
could scarce hear her voice.
"Madam," says she, "I have put my life in your hand; for if Mr Dean knew
that I had come here--that I had dared--O Madam, he can be cruel to
women!"