Then, by a curious twist in her meditations, pride sprang into arms. If one man could so completely dismiss her from his heart and memory, there were others who could not. She unlocked a drawer of her writing-table and took out a letter. Spreading it open before her, she glanced through it. It was from one who was the owner of a fine old country place and a good many thousands a year, and contained a passionate appeal to her to reconsider her former refusals. This letter she had intended to answer last week. But now?
She read it through again. Why should she continue to throw away life, grieving over what was past and done with; what was inevitable; what was dead and buried? It was more sensible to take life as it is, and make the best of things. She would accept the man. There was no reason why she should not, and every reason why she should.
She drew a sheet of paper to her, but before she had got further than the address, a new thought struck her. What if she had so replied by last mail—that is to say, the day before this other had been so unexpectedly thrown back into her life? Nay, worse. What if she had so replied to a like appeal from the same quarter nearly a year ago? That decided her. She wrote her reply—and it was in the negative, very unequivocally so—stamped and directed it, and threw it aside.
Then she did a strange—and in view of her former meditations—an utterly inconsequent thing. She took another sheet of paper and wrote:
“We were to be strangers to each other. Had we not better remain so? You will understand my meaning fully within the next few days. Of course I have no right to try and influence your movements, so must leave it to your own judgment to order them in what seems to me the only rational and sensible way.
“Vivien.”
This she put into an envelope, which she sealed, but did not stamp. Then she directed it to “Howard Campian, Esquire, Chirria Bach.”
No; she could not bear it. To be under the same roof with him for days, possibly weeks at a time, and keep up the rôle of strangers to each other, would be too great a strain. Now, when he should receive her uncle’s invitation he would know what to do. On the face of such an intimation there was but one course open to him. A rap came at the door, and her uncle’s voice:
“Got any letters to send, Viv? The Levy sowar is here.”
“Only one,” she answered, opening the door, and handing him the one bearing the English address. “The other I want to go in the opposite direction. The man can take it this evening when he passes here with the Upwards’ dâk.”