[Mabel was reading very fast, her eyes hurrying from side to side of
the page, her face blanching, and her hands more numb with every
word.] "The above is a verbatim copy of that portion of my friend's letter
which pertains to your affair," continued Mr. Aylett. "I shall write
to Mrs. Sutton's protege by the mail that carries this, informing
him of my opportune discovery, through no instrumentality of his
providing, of the poverty of his claims to the title of gentleman,
and the audacity of his pretensions to my sister's hand. Have what
letters, etc., you have received from him ready packed to return to
his address when I come home. My principal regret, in the review of
the unfortunate entanglement, is that he ever visited Ridgeley and
was known in the vicinity as your suitor. You will suffer from this,
in the future, more than you can now suppose. A woman hardly ever
outlives such a stigma.
"You may expect me on Thursday next, the 21st, at which time I hope
to see most of the alterations I have ordered in an encouraging
state of forwardness. Should Jenkyns be in town when you get this,
write out my directions clearly and in full, and send them, with
sample of damask, by mail.
"Your affectionate brother, "WINSTON AYLETT"
The clammy, nerveless hands dropped--the fatal sheet below
them--into Mabel's lap. She did not cry out or moan. Things stricken
to the heart generally fall dumbly. It was not her cramped position
within the window-seat that paralyzed her limbs, nor the chill of
the twilight that crept through vein and bone. For one sick second
she believed herself to be dying, and would not have stirred a
muscle or spoken a syllable to save the life which had suddenly
grown worthless--worthless, since she was never to see Frederic
again; be no more to him than if she had never laid her head upon
his bosom; never felt his kisses upon lip and forehead; never lived
upon his words of love as rapt mortals, admitted in trances to the
banquet of the gods, eat ambrosia, and drink to divinest ecstacy of
nectar--the elixir of immortal life and joy, sparkling in golden
chalices.
She had had her dream--ravishing and brief--but the awakening was
terrible as the struggle back to life from a swoon or deathful
lethargy. As to thinking, I believe nobody thinks at such seasons.
Nature shrinks in speechless horror at sight of the descending
weight, and when it has fallen, lies motionless, gasping in breath
to enable her to support the intolerable anguish, not speculating
how to avert the next stroke. Frederic and she were parted! Had not
Winston said so! And when was he known to reverse a verdict! She had
nothing to do but sit still and let the waters go over her head.