‘Not in mind?’ asked Rudolf, gently.
She shook her head.
‘I wish I could say that I even felt as if I were becoming better. Everything seems as dark, or darker than it was before. Do you see this letter?’
She held it up, and her face was dark as she spoke.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It is from Avice Wellfield. I will tell you the truth. It cannot be more bitter to you than it is to me. These letters are the events of my life, the only things I really care for. I look forward to them with an eagerness I cannot express, and when they have come, I live upon the recollection of them. I cannot find my place in this new life. I will not deceive you,’ she added, with a vehemence almost passionate. ‘I have not sunk so low as to even wish to do that; but I feel degraded, humiliated, miserable, to think that I cannot cast aside my weakness, that it dwells with me. And as for returning to my old pursuits–to my painting–to the joy I used to have in even holding a brush in my hand–I do not believe it will ever return to me again. I believe it is destroyed. I have heard of such things happening after a great shock or a serious illness. I have had both; why should it not be so with me?’
She spoke bitterly, though composedly, and beat her hand with Avice’s letter.
‘And you do care for those letters?’ he asked.
‘Yes–oh, if–do you object, Rudolf? Would you like me to give over writing?’ she asked, with something like a ray of hope dawning upon her face.
‘Give it up–my dear child, I would not deal such a blow to your poor little friend, or offer such an insult to you, as even to hint such a thing. To me, you are above suspicion, Sara. If I heard you were corresponding with Jerome Wellfield himself, I should feel no uneasiness. I know you and your pride and simplicity too well.’