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