Then they were silent, and Hyde drew his dog closer and watched the blaze among some lighter branches, which a servant had just brought in. At his entrance he had also given Annie a letter, which she was eagerly reading. Hyde had no speculation about it; and even when he found Annie regarding him with her whole soul in her face, he failed to understand, as he always had done, the noble love which had been so long and so faithfully his—a love holding itself above endearments; self-repressed, self-sacrificing, kept down in the inmost heart-chamber a dignified prisoner behind very real bars. Yet he was conscious that the letter was of more than usual interest, and when the servant had closed the door behind him, he asked, “Whom is your letter from, Annie? It seems to please you very much.”
She leaned forward to him with the paper in her little trembling hand, and said,
“It is from Cornelia.”
“My God!” he ejaculated; and the words were fraught with such feeling, as could have found no other vehicle of expression.
“She has sent you, dear George, a copy of the letter you ought to have received more than two years ago. Read it.”
His eyes ran rapidly over the sweet words, his face flamed, his hands trembled, he cried out impetuously—
“But what does it mean? Am I quite in my senses? How has this letter been delayed? Why do I get only a copy?”
“Because Mr. Van Ariens has the original.”
“It is all incredible. What do you mean, Annie? Do not keep me in such torturing suspense.”
“It means that Mr. Van Ariens asked Cornelia to marry him on the same day that you wrote to her about your marriage. She answered both letters in the same hour, and misdirected them.”