And discontentedly and lingeringly the gallant captain, followed by Puddock, withdrew himself—­pausing to caress the wolf-dog at the corner of the court-yard, and loitering as long as it was decent in the avenue.

All this time Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, like her more mature relative, was in the quiet precincts of her chamber.  She, too, had locked her door, and, with throbbing temples and pale face, was writing a letter, from which I take the liberty of printing a few scarcely coherent passages.

* * * * *

’I saw you on Sunday—­for near two hours—­may Heaven forgive me, thinking of little else than you.  And, oh! what would I not have given to speak, were it but ten words to you?  When is my miserable probation to end?  Why is this perverse mystery persisted in?  I sometimes lose all hope in my destiny, and well-nigh all trust in you.  I feel that I am a deceiver, and cannot bear it.  I assure you, on my sacred honour, I believe there is nothing gained by all this—­oh! forgive the word—­deception.  How or when is it to terminate?—­what do you purpose?—­why does the clerk’s absence from the town cause you so much uneasiness—­is there any danger you have not disclosed?  A friend told me that you were making preparations to leave Chapelizod and return to England.  I think I was on the point of fainting when I heard it.  I almost regret I did not, as the secret would thus have been discovered, and my emancipation accomplished.  How have you acquired this strange influence over me, to make me so deceive those in whom I should most naturally confide?  I am persuaded they believe I really recoil from you.  And what is this new business of Doctor Sturk?  I am distracted with uncertainties and fears.  I hear so little, and imperfectly from you, I cannot tell from your dark hints whether some new danger lurks in those unlooked-for quarters.  I know not what magic binds me so to you, to endure the misery of this strange deceitful mystery—­but you are all mystery; and yet be not—­you cannot be—­my evil genius.  You will not condemn me longer to a wretchedness that must destroy me.  I conjure you, declare yourself.  What have we to fear?  I will brave all—­anything rather than darkness, suspense, and the consciousness of a continual dissimulation.  Declare yourself, I implore of you, and be my angel of light and deliverance.’

There is a vast deal more, but this sample is quite enough; and when the
letter was finished, she signed it—­
               ’Your most unhappy and too-faithful,
          
                                   ‘GERTRUDE’.

And having sealed it, she leaned her anxious head upon her hand, and sighed heavily.

She knew very well by what means to send it; and the letter awaited at his house him for whom it was intended on his return that evening.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IN WHICH THE KNIGHT OF THE SILVER SPECTACLES MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE SAGE ‘BLACK DILLON,’ AND CONFERS WITH HIM IN HIS RETREAT.