Heavens! have I deserved to be taken at my word in this unmercifully exact way, after the years of tender intimacy that have united us? But I don't complain; I only mourn over the frailty of our common human nature. Let us expect as little of each other as possible, my dear; we are both women, and we can't help it. I declare, when I reflect on the origin of our unfortunate ***--when I remember that we were all originally made of no better material than the rib of a man (and that rib of so little importance to its possessor that he never appears to have missed it afterward), I am quite astonished at our virtues, and not in the least surprised at our faults.
"I am wandering a little; I am losing myself in serious thought, like that sweet character in Shakespeare who was 'fancy free.'
One last word, dearest, to say that my longing for an answer to this proceeds entirely from my wish to hear from you again in your old friendly tone, and is quite unconnected with any curiosity to know what you are doing at Thorpe Ambrose--except such curiosity as you yourself might approve. Need I add that Ibeg you as a favor to _me_ to renew, on the customary terms? Irefer to the little bill due on Tuesday next, and I venture to suggest that day six weeks.
"Yours, with a truly motherly feeling, "MARIA OLDERSHAW."9. _From Miss Gwilt to Mrs. Oldershaw._
"Paradise Place, July 27th.
"I HAVE just got your last letter. The brazen impudence of it has roused me. I am to be treated like a child, am I?--to be threatened first, and then, if threatening fails, to be coaxed afterward? You _ shall_ coax me; you shall know, my motherly friend, the sort of child you have to deal with.
"I had a reason, Mrs. Oldershaw, for the silence which has so seriously offended yo u. I was afraid--actually afraid--to let you into the secret of my thoughts. No such fear troubles me now.
My only anxiety this morning is to make you my best acknowledgments for the manner in which you have written to me.
After carefully considering it, I think the worst turn I can possibly do you is to tell you what you are burning to know. So here I am at my desk, bent on telling it. If you don't bitterly repent, when you are at the end of this letter, not having held to your first resolution, and locked me up out of harm's way while you had the chance, my name is not Lydia Gwilt.
"Where did my last letter end? I don't remember, and don't care.
Make it out as you can--I am not going back any further than this day week. That is to say, Sunday last.
"There was a thunder-storm in the morning. It began to clear off toward noon. I didn't go out: I waited to see Midwinter or to hear from him. (Are you surprised at my not writing 'Mr.' before his name? We have got so familiar, my dear, that 'Mr.' would be quite out of place.) He had left me the evening before, under very interesting circumstances. I had told him that his friend Armadale was persecuting me by means of a hired spy. He had declined to believe it, and had gone straight to Thorpe Ambrose to clear the thing up. I let him kiss my hand before he went. He promised to come back the next day (the Sunday). I felt I had secured my influence over him; and I believed he would keep his word.
"Well, the thunder passed away as I told you. The weather cleared up; the people walked out in their best clothes; the dinners came in from the bakers; I sat dreaming at my wretched little hired piano, nicely dressed and looking my best--and still no Midwinter appeared. It was late in the afternoon, and I was beginning to feel offended, when a letter was brought to me. It had been left by a strange messenger who went away again immediately. I looked at the letter. Midwinter at last--in writing, instead of in person. I began to feel more offended than ever; for, as I told you, I thought I had used my influence over him to better purpose.
"The letter, when I read it, set my mind off in a new direction.
It surprised, it puzzled, it interested me. I thought, and thought, and thought of him, all the rest of the day.
"He began by asking my pardon for having doubted what I told him.
Mr. Armadale's own lips had confirmed me. They had quarreled (as I had anticipated they would); and he, and the man who had once been his dearest friend on earth, had parted forever. So far, Iwas not surprised. I was amused by his telling me in his extravagant way that he and his friend were parted forever; and Irather wondered what he would think when I carried out my plan, and found my way into the great house on pretense of reconciling them.
"But the second part of the letter set me thinking. Here it is, in his own words.