And overpowered by her complete isolation, she threw herself on her knees beside her bed, and, hiding her face in the clothes, gave way to the thick coming sobs that shook her frame, and ceased only when they had exhausted the power to express such emotion.
At length she arose, calmed by this outburst, and restored to more faith than she had hitherto felt by the unspoken prayer, in which she had silently laid the grief she was incapable of uttering before the All-seeing and Mighty Spirit, who alone witnessed her sorrow, pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to condense her thoughts, she wrote:
"I must see and speak to you. Have you not thought, in the silence of the last few hours, of a thousand indications that I am not the base wretch you fancied me. Remember, we have shared the same home, where the very soul of honour presided. Look into your own heart, see how far that has impressed you, and judge me by yourself. I never overcame, although I tried, the secret repugnance with which Lord Effingham inspired me—an instinct which his conduct this day has justified; and until this day, I had not the remotest idea of his preference for me. Be just, Georgina, my own dear cousin. Oh, with what true, what unbroken affection I write these words. You cannot doubt me.
"I must see you—there is much for us to arrange—and at once; we must guard ourselves from the animadversions of the people about us; let me see you; tell me why—tell me what suggested the terrible reproaches with which you overwhelmed me? I have ever loved you—ever linked you with all that is dearest and most sacred in my memory. Oh, judge me by your own heart, and say could a stranger, a man known but yesterday, of whose previous conduct, selfish, petty, unmanly, as it was, I was fully aware; could he make me so utterly forget my holiest memories, my deepest obligations, my loyalty to my sex, my faith to you! in much you are my superior; but I am as true to you as you are to yourself."
She read this over, felt dissatisfied with it, yet despairing of writing anything that could please her more, hastily added—"I wait your reply," signed her name, and, unlocking her door, stole lightly to Lady Desmond's, she knocked, and, after a short delay, Lady Desmond asked, in a constrained voice—
"Is that Louise? I have a dreadful headache, and am lying down—I cannot be disturbed."
"It is not Louise—I have a note for you." Another pause, and the door was unlocked. Lady Desmond, still in her carriage dress, put out her hand, silently took the note, and closed the door.
Kate again returned to her own room and to her troubled thoughts, thankful for nurse's absence, unusual at that hour, and feeling somewhat relieved by having put things en train for an interview with her cousin; her natural fortitude, of which she possessed so much, began to rise out of the terrible wreck of pleasant things which had weighed it down, and to consider the future with greater clearness, when Louise entered about an hour after the delivery of the note to Lady Desmond, and close upon their usual dinner hour.
"Miladi's love, and she is not at all well; she wish to see Mademoiselle sur l'instant."