At the bottom of the packet, after the letters have been all disposed of, is something seeming different. A piece of cardboard—a portrait—in short, a carte de visite. It is the likeness of Charles Clancy, given her on one of those days when he flung himself affectionately at her feet.
She does not tear it in twain, as she has the letters; though at first this is nearest her intent. Some thought restraining her, she holds it up in the moon’s light, her eyes for a time resting on, and closely scanning it. Painful memories, winters of them, pass through her soul, shown upon her countenance, while she makes scrutiny of the features so indelibly graven upon her heart. She is looking her last upon them—not with a wish to remember, but the hope to forget—of being able to erase that image of him long-loved, wildly worshipped, from the tablets of her memory, at once and for ever.
Who can tell what passed through her mind at that impending moment? Who could describe her heart’s desolation? Certainly, no writer of romance.
Whatever resolve she has arrived at, for a while she appears to hesitate about executing it.—
Then, like an echo heard amidst the rippling waves, return to her ear the words late spoken by her sister—
“Let us think only of the future—of our father.”
The thought decides her; and, stepping out to the extremest limit the guard-rail allows, she flings the photograph upon the paddles of the revolving wheel, as she does so, saying—
“Away, image of one once loved—picture of a man who has proved false! Be crushed, and broken, as he has broken my heart!”
The sigh that escapes her, on letting drop the bit of cardboard, more resembles a subdued scream—a stifled cry of anguish, such as could only come from what she has just spoken of—a broken heart.
As she turns to re-enter the cabin, she appears ill-prepared for taking part, or pleasure, in a game of cards.