Of the many contradictory particulars constituting a woman’s heart, two
had shown their vigorous contrast in Cytherea’s bosom just at this time.
It was a dark morning, the morning after old Mr. Springrove’s visit
to Miss Aldclyffe, which had terminated as Edward had intended. Having
risen an hour earlier than was usual with her, Cytherea sat at the
window of an elegant little sitting-room on the ground floor, which had
been appropriated to her by the kindness or whim of Miss Aldclyffe, that
she might not be driven into that lady’s presence against her will. She
leant with her face on her hand, looking out into the gloomy grey air.
A yellow glimmer from the flapping flame of the newly-lit fire fluttered
on one side of her face and neck like a butterfly about to settle there,
contrasting warmly with the other side of the same fair face, which
received from the window the faint cold morning light, so weak that her
shadow from the fire had a distinct outline on the window-shutter in
spite of it. There the shadow danced like a demon, blue and grim.
The contradiction alluded to was that in spite of the decisive
mood which two months earlier in the year had caused her to write a
peremptory and final letter to Edward, she was now hoping for some
answer other than the only possible one a man who, as she held, did not
love her wildly, could send to such a communication. For a lover who
did love wildly, she had left one little loophole in her otherwise
straightforward epistle. Why she expected the letter on some morning of
this particular week was, that hearing of his return to Carriford, she
fondly assumed that he meant to ask for an interview before he left.
Hence it was, too, that for the last few days, she had not been able to
keep in bed later than the time of the postman’s arrival.
The clock pointed to half-past seven. She saw the postman emerge from
beneath the bare boughs of the park trees, come through the wicket, dive
through the shrubbery, reappear on the lawn, stalk across it without
reference to paths--as country postmen do--and come to the porch. She
heard him fling the bag down on the seat, and turn away towards the
village, without hindering himself for a single pace.
Then the butler opened the door, took up the bag, brought it in, and
carried it up the staircase to place it on the slab by Miss Aldclyffe’s
dressing-room door. The whole proceeding had been depicted by sounds.
She had a presentiment that her letter was in the bag at last. She
thought then in diminishing pulsations of confidence, ‘He asks to see
me! Perhaps he asks to see me: I hope he asks to see me.’
A quarter to eight: Miss Aldclyffe’s bell--rather earlier than usual.
‘She must have heard the post-bag brought,’ said the maiden, as,
tired of the chilly prospect outside, she turned to the fire, and drew
imaginative pictures of her future therein.
A tap came to the door, and the lady’s-maid entered.
‘Miss Aldclyffe is awake,’ she said; ‘and she asked if you were moving
yet, miss.’
‘I’ll run up to her,’ said Cytherea, and flitted off with the utterance
of the words. ‘Very fortunate this,’ she thought; ‘I shall see what is
in the bag this morning all the sooner.’
She took it up from the side table, went into Miss Aldclyffe’s bedroom,
pulled up the blinds, and looked round upon the lady in bed, calculating
the minutes that must elapse before she looked at her letters.
‘Well, darling, how are you? I am glad you have come in to see me,’
said Miss Aldclyffe. ‘You can unlock the bag this morning, child, if you
like,’ she continued, yawning factitiously.
‘Strange!’ Cytherea thought; ‘it seems as if she knew there was likely
to be a letter for me.’
From her bed Miss Aldclyffe watched the girl’s face as she tremblingly
opened the post-bag and found there an envelope addressed to her in
Edward’s handwriting; one he had written the day before, after the
decision he had come to on an impartial, and on that account torturing,
survey of his own, his father’s, his cousin Adelaide’s, and what he
believed to be Cytherea’s, position.
The haughty mistress’s soul sickened remorsefully within her when she
saw suddenly appear upon the speaking countenance of the young lady
before her a wan desolate look of agony.
The master-sentences of Edward’s letter were these: ‘You speak truly.
That we never meet again is the wisest and only proper course. That I
regret the past as much as you do yourself, it is hardly necessary for
me to say.’