--Yours,
'E. SWANCOURT.
Knight turned his head wearily towards the house. The ground rose
rapidly on nearing the shrubbery in which he stood, raising it
almost to a level with the first floor of The Crags. Elfride's
dressing-room lay in the salient angle in this direction, and it
was lighted by two windows in such a position that, from Knight's
standing-place, his sight passed through both windows, and raked
the room. Elfride was there; she was pausing between the two
windows, looking at her figure in the cheval-glass. She regarded
herself long and attentively in front; turned, flung back her
head, and observed the reflection over her shoulder.
Nobody can predicate as to her object or fancy; she may have done
the deed in the very abstraction of deep sadness. She may have
been moaning from the bottom of her heart, 'How unhappy am I!' But
the impression produced on Knight was not a good one. He dropped
his eyes moodily. The dead woman's letter had a virtue in the
accident of its juncture far beyond any it intrinsically
exhibited. Circumstance lent to evil words a ring of pitiless
justice echoing from the grave. Knight could not endure their
possession. He tore the letter into fragments.
He heard a brushing among the bushes behind, and turning his head
he saw Elfride following him. The fair girl looked in his face
with a wistful smile of hope, too forcedly hopeful to displace the
firmly established dread beneath it.
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